Tales from the Prancing Pony
by Rob Rastorp
Summary: Fram's Saga, Eorl's Saga, and the Fall of Khazaddum, as related one night at the Prancing Pony inn at Bree.
1. Preface and Fram's Saga

**Tales from the Prancing Pony**

It was a wild night on this ides of March, and the wind howled like a Warg on the prowl as it coursed along the narrow streets of Bree. Sheets of rain drove against the walls and windowpanes of the town's ancient houses of stone, and the few lanterns that stood along the main thoroughfares cast a lamentably feeble glow amid the all-embracing gloom of the moonless night. The streets were empty, and the folk of Bree, both Big and Little, had long since retired early to their beds, fearful of the evil creatures whom legend said stalked the land on nights such as this one. In one house alone were there still candles lighted by the windows, and fires burning brightly in their hearths – that ancient inn from whose lintel above the door hung the Sign of the Prancing Pony.

Since time immemorial, that inn had been the gathering place of the Bree-folk, the heart and soul of the town, where Men and Hobbits would gossip and bargain, sing and dance, drink and be merry. And since time immemorial, the Inn, which stood at the spot where the East-West Road met the North-South Road, had served as a refuge for travelers from distant lands – Men of the South, Dwarves from the East and West, even now and again a handful of exceptionally bold Hobbits of the Shire, though these had grown ever fewer in number over the long years that had passed since the fall of the last King at Fornost, and the rise in brigandage along the roads. These travelers all had to venture many weary miles along forsaken and dangerous paths before they reached the tiny haven of the Bree-land, and for all of them the Prancing Pony was a welcome resting place amid their long and wearisome journeys. To pass inside the broad front door of the Pony, as the Bree-landers called it, was to place danger at one's back, and a trencher full of hot food and mugs of fine ale at one's front, with the promise of story and song to pass the hours, and a soft and warm bed at the night's end.

Hornbeam Butterbur, whose family had owned and managed the Inn for as long as Men could remember, was on all accounts a pleasant enough fellow, with a more jovial manner than many of his more dour predecessors. He was as well-suited for the profession of a publican as a Man could be. For all his habitual good-humour, he was no fool, and knew well that his business at the Pony was first and foremost to ensure that his guests parted with their hard-earned coins in exchange for his hearty fare and cozy rooms. Thus it was with mounting alarm that he noted how few guests had ventured within the walls of the inn this night, and how still and quiet things were at an hour when Men and Hobbits and even Dwarves were habitually feasting and singing. The weather had discouraged all but the most ardent devotees of the ale-taps amongst the Bree-landers from giving their custom to the Pony this night – seven Men and three Bree-Hobbits, to be precise - and even these were grumbling that it would be better to turn in early and head off to their homes than drown their boredom in more dearly-bought ale. Worse still there were but two travelers at the inn – a rag-robed, elderly Man, and a stolid, taciturn Dwarf, neither of whom seemed likely to the casual eye to provide much in the way of entertainment (nor to Mr. Butterbur's eye to rent any but the least expensive of his bedrooms).

Rubbing his broad hands on his greasy white apron, the portly innkeeper, recognizing that he had to take the bull by the horns if the night was not to prove a complete loss, astonished the dozen or so guests who sat at their tables in the common room by climbing (with some difficulty) on top of a heavy oaken chair. Mopping the sweat off his balding pate with a rag that he then returned to a pocket in his woolen britches, he stood to attention, snapped his suspenders with his thumbs, and cried in a very loud (if rather squeaky) voice "YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!"

The guests stared up at him for but a moment, before some of the more jaded regulars appeared ready to lose interest. Not allowing his moment to go to waste, Butterbur continued, "Your attention please, gentlemen and gentle-hobbits, and gentle-dwarves too – though I fear but one of the Dwarven folk is amongst us tonight." The solitary Dwarf grunted and returned to devouring a joint of beef. "There are, alas, no ladies amongst the company tonight," continued Butterbur, "though the fairer sex has ever been known to shun the outdoors when the weather takes a turn for the worst, and…"

"Are you going to stand there blathering all night?" asked one of the Bree-Men, a sour-looking fellow with a rough, weather-hewn face. "Get to the point, if you have one!"

"Now then, Rowan Goatleaf," chided Butterbur with an exaggerated frown, "no need to fret. The point is this – for the entertainment of all you fine sirs, I am officially declaring this to be a night of storytelling at the Prancing Pony!"

"The only story likely to be told this night will involve a fat innkeeper falling flat on his behind after his chair collapses under his own weight!" shot back Goatleaf triumphantly, to the delight of the Bree-landers. Butterbur took their laughter good-naturedly, and then continued with his announcement:

"Yes, a night of tales of yore, tales from distant lands known not to us Bree-folk!" he continued. "And who better to tell such tales than our two distinguished guests tonight, a foreign Man and a Dwarf no less! Kind sirs, I invite both of you to offer the finest tales known to you. To whichever one of you the audience judges the as having told the best tale, I shall award a rare prize – a trencher of hot bread and stew, and ale to your hearts content, all on the house!" He paused, and the Bree-Hobbits, whose ample bellies suddenly felt less full than they had but a moment before, began to number their own store of homely tales, hoping they might be invited to participate in the contest if the travelers turned down the innkeepers' invitation.

"Master Dwarf!" beamed Butterbur, "perhaps you would honour us by being the first to offer your own fine tale?"

"I most certainly would not!" replied the Dwarf gruffly, folding his arms beneath his dark blue cloak. "I am no minstrel to sing for my supper, innkeeper. Ask yon vagabond if you want a tale to entertain your guests," he continued, nodding curtly at the elderly Man who sat close to the fire.

"Vagabond, am I?" replied the Man in a rasping voice, staring up from his bowl of gruel. He straightened his grey beard with his long fingers, and said "Vagabond I might appear to you, Master Dwarf, and indeed to all of you. It is true that I am short of coin of late, for I lost my purse along with my steed while fording the Greyflood a few weeks ago – accursed river! The few copper pennies stowed in my pockets are all that are left to me at the moment. But I'll have you know that in my time I've enjoyed finer hospitality than many of you might imagine."

"Now, now" interjected Butterbur, keen to prevent a fight from breaking out amongst his guests. "No need for injured feelings, kind sirs. If our illustrious Dwarf is not willing to tell us a tale, then perhaps you would be old greybeard? I almost recall having seen you under the Pony's roof before, in years gone by. Long must you have wandered the roads, it seems, and no doubt you know many tales that are beyond our ken. Surely you will not look askance at my offer? You'll win your meat and ale by acclamation if you do."

The old Man was silent for a moment, his bushy eyebrows drawn together as if in concentration. Then he looked up, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and said "Well, I'll confess I'm quite willing to sing for my supper, if it's better than this gruel. There's no point in standing on one's dignity if one's stomach isn't full." The Bree-Hobbits nodded at this homely wisdom, and the crowd turned to the greybeard as he pushed away his bowl of gruel, cleared his throat, and prepared himself for his work.

"The tale that I shall tell," he began, in a voice that suddenly grew surprisingly deep and loud, "is one that is doubtless unknown to you. Yet in a distant land, far away in the South, it is the national epic of a brave and noble people. It is in two parts_ – Fram's Saga _and _Eorl's Saga - _and I heard it sung by the King's minstrels in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, in the town of Edoras, capital of the land of Rohan."

"I've heard of Rohan," interjected Butterbur, who had climbed down off his chair (with even more difficulty than he had climbed up it) and now sat amid the other members of the audience. "A broad grassy plain it is, east of the Ford of Isen, and north of the White Mountains of Gondor. Its horses are famous far and wide."

"They are indeed," replied the storyteller, "and justly so, for reasons that the tale itself makes clear. Mind, I shall not tell it to you _precisely _as it heard it at Edoras – for there it is sung as an epic poem in the Rohirric speech, and even if I had a voice fit for song you would not understand the words. But I shall relate it to you in prose, as best as I can translate it into the Common Tongue of the Westlands. I might have to use my imagination now and again, to fill in gaps in the tale caused by its conversion from poetry to prose, but I trust you shall bear with me."

"Doubtless it's all imagination anyway," interjected Goatleaf, "so what should we care if you add more to it?"

"I assure you the tale itself is _not_ mere imagination," replied the old Man crossly. "However much embroidered, it is based upon solid fact – though perhaps the history of the lands east of the Misty Mountains is not well known in these parts. Now if I may begin at the beginning – without any further interruptions, mind! – then you shall be able to account to yourselves by this night's end a greater treasury of knowledge than the scanty store some of you have brought with you." He glowered at Goatleaf, and without further preliminaries began his tale:

_Fram's Saga_

"Nearly nine-hundred years ago - not long after the beginning of the reign of the Stewards of Gondor, who assumed control of that ancient land when the line of its Kings came to an end – a tribe of Northmen dwelt amid the headwaters of the Great River Anduin, in the uppermost of its vales by the roots of the Grey Mountains. They were not the first, and certainly not the most powerful of the many tribes of Northmen who have dwelt in those upper vales of Anduin, whose broad, deep waters have ever-sundered the West of Middle Earth from the East. Their original name, if they had one, was not known to even to themselves, but at the time of which I speak their hereditary chieftain was a Man named Farm, and his people called themselves the _Eotheod_. They were a simple people, who made their living by herding their cows and sheep and by trading for necessities. They fought on horseback, and oft had to rely on their swords to defend even their meager possessions from theft and pillaging by their enemies."

"There were other Northmen in that valley, the Bearserkers, the last of whose descendents dwell there even to this day – a tough and violent people, though many were and are diamonds in the rough. And there were yet other folk as well. Some were Dwarves, and these were a decent lot for the most part, though suspicious of outsiders and habitually lacking in courtesy."

Here the storyteller shot a pointed glare at the blue-robed Dwarf across the common room, and then resumed his tale.

"Yet there were others of a less than savoury nature – a few wicked Dwarves, and many Goblins and Orcs of the Misty and the Grey Mountains, and other dark creatures of whom it is ill to speak on a night such as this." The winds howled again outside the walls of the inn, rattling the doors and windowpanes, and the guests shuddered and leaned closer to the fire.

"But worst of all the evil beings who dwelt near that valley," continued the storyteller, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "was Scatha the Worm." The Dwarf started up suddenly in his seat, but remained silent, though he now watched the storyteller with a new intensity.

"Ah, Scatha's name was well-known in the olden times!" continued the greybeard. "The Northmen called him a Worm in their tongue, but in the Common Speech he would be known to you as a Dragon." Here the audience gasped appreciably, and the old Man smiled. "And no mere Dragon," he intoned, "but the deadliest of his kind – a winged fire-drake!"

"Only one of those fell beasts yet lives in these later days," whispered the Dwarf under his breath.

"Indeed so, Master Dwarf," nodded the storyteller. "But in those days there was more than one, and Scatha was foremost amongst them. He was born in the dungeons of Angband in the First Age of the Sun, and reared on a diet of living flesh by the black hand of the Great Enemy, He Who is Not to be Named, He of whom the Dark Lord of Mordor in later days was but an emissary and a servant."

The greybeard paused, noting the fearful countenances of the audience, and then continued. "Scatha survived the holocaust, the terrible onslaught of the Valar, the High Elves, and the Forefathers of the Numenoreans that led to the destruction of Angband, and the exile of the Great Enemy beyond the Circles of the World at the end of the First Age. Like many survivors of his kind, Scatha retreated to the Withered Heath of Forodwaith, north of the Grey Mountains, and bided his time. Then at length he flew south, to the headwaters of the river Anduin, and at the root of a sheer-sided mountain he found a cave that he excavated into his lair. And there, for many long centuries, Scatha watched and waited."

"He was both terrible and magnificent of aspect, like all his kind. There are many shades and colours of Dragons, and Scatha for his part was sheethed in scales of brilliant green that were as hard as adamant. His eyes glowed red, and trails of brimstone-laden vapours ever issued from his nostrils. He was full two-hundred feet from nose to tail, and one-hundred and fifty across from wingtip to wingtip, and his teeth ranged in from dagger-sized to as long as a sword, and his claws were as long as a spear. Yet few had seen him, even from afar, and fewer still had lived to tell the tale. To attract the attention of Scatha the Worm was to invite one's own death under a torrent of fire and an avalanche of slashing claws and fangs."

"Scatha's opportunity came thanks to the greed of an raiding party of Goblins, laden with spoil they had looted from the treasuries of Moria, the Kazhad-Dum of the Dwarves, in the Misty Mountains far to the south, who were returning to their home in the caverns beneath Mount Gundabad, bearing their stolen treasures in open packs on their backs. The Goblins were themselves servants of Shadow and Flame in their origins, yet that meant nothing to Scatha. Like all Dragons since the fall of the Great Enemy, he served only himself and his own desires. He would make no alliance with other servants of the Enemy unless it served his own ambitions. And like all Dragons, he desired nothing more than the gleam of gold and silver and mithril, and the flash of emeralds and rubies and sapphires. He coveted his own treasure hoard, and by fang and claw he meant to have it!"

"Scatha caught the gleam of gold and gems in the open packs while flying far above, and with a wicked laughed he descened upon the hapless Goblins like a thunderbolt. He slaughterd them with abandon, laughing even more harshly as the black-feathered arrows from their compound bows bounced harmlessly off his dragon scales. They might have done him some damage if they had hit the tender flesh beneath his arms and legs, yet he was so fast and his assault so devastating that their shots were wide off the mark. In less than a minute, the last of the Goblins was defeated. Those who were not dead were gravely wounded, and lay helpless on the ground/"

"After consuming his fill of the living, yet bitter flesh of those few Goblins who had not been slain in his assault - no doubt with some distaste - Scatha then set to gathering up the treasure in gold, silver, mithril and jewels that lay scattered about. He proudly carryed it back to his lair a few clawfuls at a time as his own treasure hoard. It wasn't long before every last part of the treasure found itself at the bottom of Scatha's cavern, serving as his gleaming bed."

"Scatha's greed was sated for a time by his newfound hoard, and for many long years he slept. But then, at length, he was aroused from his sleep by the pangs of awesome hunger. Like all Dragons he was so long-lived as to be nearly immortal, and he could last for decades without devouring a trace of food. But now and again, hunger would come upon him, and when it did he would have to feed on the flesh of the living – whether living beasts, or living Men and others who walked on two legs, it was all the same to him."

"Scatha flew over the lands about his cave, surveying them from on high on a glorious late-Summer's day. He soon realized that the Northmen and their flocks, perhaps benefiting from his slaughter of the Goblins on the long-past day he had claimed the horde of Moria for his own, had grown more numerous than ever. Everywhere he looked amid the rolling green dales of the valley he saw fat sheep and cows, sturdy horses, and tall, clean-limbed, golden-haired Men with their buxom wives and rosy-cheeked children. All were fresh meat, and to Scatha's black heart the latter promised to be the sweetest delicacy of all."

"When Scatha struck it came as a bolt from the blue. It was high summer, and many of the Eotheod were out of doors – the Men tending their flocks and cutting wood from the forests, the women doing their washing and minding their gardens, the children playing in the fields and by the streams. Suddenly the light of the Sun was darkened, as if by a passing cloud, though the day was bright and clear. Then, without warning, Scatha was upon them!"

"The lucky ones never new what hit them. They were consumed in an instant by a holocaust of flame. The others screamed and ran for their lives, of course, but it did them no good. Scatha could devour an entire family in seconds, and there was no house or byre that was shelter enough against his beating wings and deadly, lashing tail. The arrows and spears of the Men proved as useless against his bright green dragonscales as had those of the Goblins of the Misty Mountians.

"In a single day Scatha slaughtered scores of the Eotheod, and consumed or devoured countless sheep, cows and horses. And that was only the beginning. There was no respite from his hunger and cruelty, for he soon developed a taste for manflesh, and found it even more to his liking than well-roasted mutton and beef. At any hour of the day or night, his shadow might darken Sun or Moon, and doom would fall upon yet another hapless clan of the Northmen."

"Soon things came to such a bad state that the Eotheod could no longer live in the open grassy swards of the valley. Some of them fled west into the barren gullies and canyons of the Misty Mountains, but these proved no shelter from Scatha's keen eye. Those poor souls he did not devour fared no better than those he did, for they soon fell prey to maurading bands of Orcs, Goblins and ravenous Trolls. Not one man, woman, or child of the Eotheod who fled west lived to tell the tale."

"The greater part of them, though, fled east, under the dark boughs of Mirkwood, the greatest forest of the northern world. Here at least, Scatha could not see them from afar, and the wood was so vast in extent that he was no more likely to uncover them by chance than is lighting to strike twice in the same spot. Scatha was angered, and breathed fire at countless swaths of forest, reducing once gloomy stands of ancient trees to smoking, barren wastes. But he found few of the Eotheod, and in time he abandoned his efforts. He turned his wrath against the open land about the Anduin itself, where the Eotheod had lived until a few weeks before. Smashing and burning, he felled the last of their turf-roofed houses of wood, devoured the last of their beasts, and reduced the last of their crops of oats and barley to ashes. Then, satiated for the time being, he retreated to his lair in the Grey Mountains, gathered his bulk about his gleaming heap of treasure, and fell into a long, deep sleep, dreaming evil dreams."

"Meanwhile, the survivors of the Eotheod, encamped amid the pathless eves of Mirkwood, soon felt that they had jumped out of the frying pan only to fall into the fire. They were tired, and thirsty, and starving, yet there was neither rest nor food or drink to be found in that wood which the Sylvan Elves call _Taur e n'Dedelos, _the Forest of Great Fear. The rains that fell were absorbed into the mossy ground, and there were no springs or creeks or even stagnant pools of standing water from which to drink. There were few beasts to be seen, save the great black squirrels of Mirkwood, whose flesh was bitter and well-nigh unpalatable."

"And if the days were bad, the nights were even worse. As soon as darkness fell – a darkness so deep and terrible that even an Elf could not see his hand if he held it in front of his face – the Eotheod went from being the hunters to being the hunted. Many evil beasts live in that wood, and many of the Eotheod who lingered too close to the edges of their camps found themselves dragged away by howling packs of ravening wolves and Wargs, or carried to a terrible doom by the giant spiders that infest the woodlands. The people held watches throughout the night, yet each new dawn revealed that their numbers had been reduced by yet a few more. The trees themselves, ancient and corrupt, almost seemed to enjoy their plight, and sibilant voices, cursing and mocking the Eotheod, could often be heard amid the humid, airless depths of the forest."

"Soon the people grew so angry and desperate that they began to curse the gods for their ill fate, and turn upon their leaders. And most of all, their wrath fell upon their chieftain Fram. Led by a few ambitious malcontents, they told him to his face that he had failed them miserably, and that he was a disgrace to his ancestors. They demanded that he lead them to better times and places, and threatened to bring his line to an end if he did not."

"Fram cared nothing about their threats for his own sake. He was a man of some thirty years, the tallest and strongest of all the Eotheod, and there was no Man among them who could stand up to him in a fight. But he had a daughter, Freya, of but fifteen years, who had given birth to a male child a few months before Scatha's assault. Fram's own wife was long dead, and Freya's son Freyr was his only heir. Freya's husband had been torn to pieces by a pack of wolves not long after they had first ventured into Mirkwood, while he was on a fruitless journey to find a spring of water that could slake his thirst and that of his family. And so, now that the people were turning against them, Fram himself was the only protection that Freya and Freyr had. He did not care to think what might happen to them if the people's wrath, in fear of his own swordarm, was turned against his defenceless family."

"It angered Fram mightily that he should have to fear his own people, and yet he knew their wrath and brewing treachery was not native to their hearts – they had been planted there by desperation. They could not long remain under the dark eves of thrice-accursed Mirkwood. If there was to be any hope for himself, his family, and his people, he would either have to restore them all to their own lands in safety, or lead them far away, exiles forever."

"Yet how could he do any of these things? He dared not lead them west, back to their own lands, for at any time Scatha might return. Below the lands of the Eotheod lay those of the Bearserkers, but they were a sullen and often violent people, and would surely not allow the Eotheod to settle amongst them. Nor were the Eotheod in fit condition to wrest control of the lands of the Bearserkers by force."

"Nor was there hope to the north, for there lay the Grey Mountains, which were not only the home of Scatha himself and lesser dragons besides, but of hordes of Goblins, Hobgoblins, Orcs, Trolls and Wargs of the worst description. And south was the most fearsome path of all, for there, amid the lower reaches of Mirkwood, stood the dark tower of Dol Guldur, lair of the dreaded Necromancer. Fram was not afraid of any living man or beast, but he had heard tales of that awful sorcerer that had made his hair stand on end. He himself would have fallen on his own sword before risking capture by the Necromancer and his evil minions."

"That left the east as the only path open to the Eotheod. Long leagues to the east lay the Forest River, where the people would at least have enough water to drink, and perhaps fish to eat, though they would be no safer from Wargs and giant spiders. Even so, they could dwell by that river for at least a short time before moving on. But that path too was full of peril. To the east lay also the realm of Thranduil, King of the Sylvan Elves of Mirkwood. That folk were not renowned for being overly-friendly toward Men. True, they were known to trade on occasion with the Northmen of Lake Esgaroth and of Dale, yet for the most part they kept aloof from mortals. And the Sylvan Elves' hatred of trespassers was legendary; more than one foolish poacher or trapper had been shot down by an Elvish arrow fired without any warning. If Fram's people were to venture into Thranduil's realm, they would have no choice but to throw themselves at the Elven-King's mercy, with no certainty as to his reply. And the Eotheod themselves, Fram knew, were afraid of all Elves, whom they viewed as woodland wights. They might well rise in open revolt if he proposed placing their fate in Thranduil's hands."

"Fram thought mightily upon these problems, and was exceedingly vexed. If only Scatha could be slain, then all their travails would come to an end, for the Eotheod could return in peace to their own rightful lands, and begin once again to build upon them. Yet how could he even begin to fight against a beast of such awesome power? He had seen with his own eyes that spears and arrows were useless against Scatha's scaly hide, and no Man could draw near enough to him to even attempt to slay him with a sword."

"Then Fram realized there was one whom he could appeal to for aid, if he were willing to risk a long and perilous journey to the south and west. In the Vale of Rhosgobel, some miles north and east of the Old Ford across the Anduin, lay the dwelling-place of Radagast the Brown. Radagast was a Wizard, and though he had in past ages been friends with the Northmen, they had grown increasingly wary of him in recent years, for they were ever more fearful of what they deemed to be magic powers that could only be fueled by dark sorcery. To their simple minds the difference in power between a Wizard like Radagast and a foul sorcerer like the Necromancer was in degree rather than in kind. Yet Fram was wise enough to know that the old tales concerning the aid Radagast had offered the Northmen during the time when he had first settled at Rhosgobel could not be wholly without foundation. If anyone would know how to slay a Dragon, it would surely be a Wizard."

"Fram resolved then to seek out Radagast, and ask his counsel, and perhaps even his aid in slaying Scatha the Worm. Yet he feared what might happen to Freya and Freyr if he left them to their own devices amongst the people. Even if the Eotheod did not turn on them, they might be little inclined to offer them aid should they be attacked by the fearsome beasts of Mirkwood. Fram soon realized he would have to take his daughter and grandson with him to Rhosgobel, for that was a lesser peril than leaving them to their own fate. He knew he risked creating the appearance of abandoning the Eotheod, yet that could not be helped. If he failed to slay Scatha, he would not return to them in any case."

"One morning, then, Fram confided his plan to one of the few lieutenants whom he still trusted. The man reluctantly consented to it, and agreed to lead the people east to the Forest River, where they might better sustain themselves than amid their current encampment. He instructed them to surrender to the Sylvan Elves if they should be challenged by them, rather than risk a fight they could not win, and the man also assented, even more reluctantly, to the wisdom of this counsel. Then, without further delay, Fram packed what scarce food and water of the provender he had brought from his longhouse, woke Freyr and Freyr, and led them beyond the encampment and through the trackless wastes of Mirkwood."

"That grim journey was a tale in itself, and one that I shall not tell in any depth, for it would only fill you with sorrow. Suffice to say that again and again Fram and his family walked in circles amid the treacherous trees, which almost seem to shift their branches and their roots to prevent the hapless mortals from escaping the wood. Fram himself hardly slept at all, for his sword was all that stood between his family and the fangs of Wargs or spiders. Freya grew thin and wan and full of fear, and poor little Freyr cried ceaselessly at first, before falling into ever longer sleeps and ever deeper silences that boded ill for his fate."

"Then, at last, when it seemed they could go on no longer, Fram saw a ray of sunlight between two trees on the farthest edge of his vision. He dashed toward them, dragging Freya with him (the babe being held in her arms) before the light faded and they found themselves lost yet again. Just as the Sun was about to set, they forced their way between the two sullen, rotting Oaks they had seen, dodging past a heavy branch that fell from one of them, and found themselves once again amid the grassy fields of the Vale of Anduin. Fram dropped to his knees and said a prayer of thanks to the gods of his people, and Freya did likewise."

"The land was green and quiet, and it was soon apparent that they in the territory of the Bearserkers, which had not yet suffered from the depredations of Scatha as had the more northerly lands of the Eotheod. Fram proceeded carefully, for he knew that while some of the Bearserkers might take pity on them, and offer them food and shelter for the night, many would not, and some might think nothing of killing a Man and babe of the Eotheod in order to take a comely maiden for a bride. And that was a fearsome thought indeed, for the Bearserkers were no ordinary Men – as their name implied, they could don the skins of Bears, and through enchantments their ancestors had learned who-knows-where in the long ago they could change their form into that of the wild beasts whose skins they wore. The most powerful of them, it was rumoured, could transform directly into bears without needing the aid of skins at all. Then they were fearsome enemies indeed, and Fram did not relish the thought of a fight with them."

"Yet the Berserkers seemed to be within their own longhouses that night, and Fram and his family were not seen by them as they traveled outdoors. All night father and daughter walked under the clear light of the stars and the Moon, heading ever westward, until they came upon a bubbling stream that followed a winding path toward the Anduin. They drank gladly from the stream, and then followed its path as it sloped gently downhill and toward the west. After some miles it disappeared under the leafy arch of a neatly trimmed hedge perhaps ten feet high, and Fram began to follow this hedge in a broad arc for some distance to the south and west of the streem. Then he came upon a tall wooden gate held in place by a latch. Certain now that he had found the place he had been seeking, and hoping that the gods still smiled upon him, he lifted the latch and opened the gate while urged Freya to follow him inside. When she had done so, the gate snapped shut, the latch clicked, and they found themselves amid the Vale of Rhosgobel."

"It was a pleasant place, full of graceful birch trees and of wildflowers that gleamed palely in the light of stars and Moon, and all was still and silent in the small hours of the morning. Then the sky grew light in the East, the birds broke into song, and Fram and Freya found themselves on a narrow path that led over a wooden bridge, across the gurgling stream from which they had drunk beyond the hedge some hours before. They crossed the bridge, followed the path, and after several turns through a stand of birches found themselves in a yard that stood before a cheerfully-painted, log-beamed and turf-roofed house, built into the side of a gently sloping hill."

"'Goodness gracious me!' cried a fruity, mellow voice from within the house. 'I've been watching you for some time now, and I must say I _am _surprised! To have traveled so far, and through such peril to visit me, of all people!' The door opened, and out stepped an old Man of greater than average height, dressed in robes of brown woolen cloth. His long hair and beard were brown, though streaked with grey, his wrinkled skin was tanned yet rosy like a dried apple, and his eyes were brown, yet flecked with sparks of brilliant green. He was clearly an outlander, not akin to the Eotheod or any of the Northmen, and Fram shuddered to think by what unnatural means the aging Wizard had managed to live for as many long years as legend claimed. Yet he spoke the tongue of the Northmen of Anduin fluently, albeit with an accent that Fram could not place, and his eyes and broad face were warm and welcoming."

"'You have seen us from afar?' asked Fram, still wary of this strange old Man, and protective of Freya and Freyr, even though he knew he had little choice other than to trust to the Wizard's good intentions."

"'Yes, you might say I've seen you from afar,' laughed the Wizard, 'Fram son of Frumgar, indeed from farther away than you might guess. I have many friends among the birds and beasts in these parts, and they told me of your progress through the woods and over the fields. But heavens, where are my manners? I am Radagast the Brown, as you doubtless know or guess, and I welcome you to Rhosgobel. I've had no visitors for many a long year, and your company is much appreciated. Come in! Eat, drink, rest! We can discuss the business that brings you here on the morrow.'"

"Fram then warmed to Radagast, and gladly accepted his offer of food and shelter. He and Freya and her infant son drank long draughts of cool, clean water and sweet, rich cream, and then the two adults savoured fine mead, and feasted on bread and butter, cheese and nuts, and berries of the wood and field. Radagast bustled about, and drew a bath of warm water for them in an oaken tub, so that they might clean the dust and mud of many long leagues from their bodies, and sooth their tired arms and legs. The Wizard offered all of them a draught of some curious bitters, which he vowed would cure what ailed them while they rested. Then he led them to their bedroom, which was as comfortable as it was homely, and they slept like logs the rest of the day, and for the first night in nearly a Moon, for it was now early October."

"The next morning they arose early, full of vim and vigor, and with ravenous appetites; it seemed the Wizard's draught had worked well indeed. They all breakfasted with Radagast by his hearth. Then, while Freya went out into the gardens, to play with Freyr and shake off her grim memories of the loss and suffering she had endured, Fram turned to the Wizard and (in the rather direct manner of the Northmen) proceeded to tell him flat out what he sought, and to appeal for his aid and counsel."

"'Hmm, yes,' said Radagast, narrowing his eyes and bridging the fingers of his calloused hands. 'Yes, the Dragon. You want me to help you put paid to old Scatha, eh? I had suspected as much.'"

"'Well, can you help us or not?' asked Fram bluntly. 'If you can, I and my people shall be eternally in your debt. If not, then perhaps you can direct us to a Wizard or Wise-man who would be of aid, and we shall thank you for your hospitality and be on our way."

"'Eternally grateful!' laughed the Wizard, slapping his hand against his thigh. 'That I very much doubt! Eternity is a long time, don't you know? Longer than the memory of Men, to be sure.'"

"'Will you not help us, then?'" asked Fram, running his fingers though his thick golden beard as his face was marred by a frown.

"'Now, that's not what I said, is it young fellow?' replied Radagast, with an injured air. 'Mind, I'm not going on an expedition with you to slay your infernal Dragon. Dragon-slaying is _not _in my line of work, you know, and I'm _much_ too busy with my gardens and aviaries and beehives to leave Rhosgobel for more than a few days at a time. But I'll offer you my counsel gladly! I'm not the wisest of my Order, nor the most powerful, but I'm sure I can still tell you what you need to know.'"

"'Well then, Wizard, go ahead and tell me,' replied Fram, again in his plainspoken style.

"'Patience, child!' exclaimed Radagast, rising to his feet. 'Follow me to my library, and we shall consult my Bestiary!'"

"So Fram got up and followed him, to a long, oak-beamed room lined floor-to-ceiling with scrolls and dusty tomes. The Eotheod lack familiarity with the arts of writing in those days, and so Fram was quite mystified when Radagast pulled an especially weighty (and dusty) leather-bound book from his shelves, slammed it down on a wooden lectionary, opened the creaking covers to a certain page, and then began to run his fingers over the spidery markings on the parchment. The Wizard began to mutter under his breath, and for a brief moment Fram feared that maybe he had been deceived, and this conjuror meant to put a spell on him and Freya after all."

"Radagast looked up at him, and said sharply, 'Really, young Man, we'll have none of that! If I wasn't well-disposed toward you, you'd never have set foot in my house to begin with!' He turned back to his book, and Fram stood still as a stone, even more alarmed that the Wizard had somehow read his mind."

"At last, the Wizard exclaimed aloud in some outlandish tongue, and then turned to Fram and said proudly, 'I've found it! Perfectly simple to kill a Dragon, don't you know! Surprised I didn't think of the answer myself.'"

"'You mean it's easy to slay a Dragon?' asked Fram doubtfully.

"'Oh no, not _easy _at all,' replied Radagast dismissively. 'You'll almost certainly be killed. But it is _simple_, and I can tell you how to go about it in principle.'"

"'Well, that's certainly reassuring,' replied Fram dryly. "But what is this counsel of yours?'"

"'All dragons have two halves,' announced the Wizard, 'a top half and a bottom one.'"

"'Do you think so?' replied Fram sourly."

"'Let me finish, young man!'" replied Radagast. 'As I was saying, all Dragons have two halves. The top half is covered in Dragonscales, often reinforced by hard gems or shards of metal, and is totally impenetrable by any mortal weapon. Only a weapon forged of Mithril by Elven or perhaps Dwarven-smiths, with their enchantments lain upon its blade, could hope to penetrate the armour on the top half of a Dragon.'"

"'I'm afraid there are no enchanted Elven or Dwarven-blades forged of Mithril in my armoury,' replied Fram. 'All I have is my sword, a bow, and a quiver full of arrows.'"

"'Quite,'" replied Radagast. 'Nor is forging such weapons my own forté, I'm afraid. I'm an herbalist and a healer, not a weapon-maker. But that brings us to the Dragon's bottom half, its long underbelly. It has no scales, only skin as soft as butter. Very inconvenient for a beast that spends much of its time in the air. But then, as it says here on page six-hundred and ninety-two, the first Dragons crawled on the ground, and so their undersides needed no armour. The flying Dragons came much later, not long before the War of Wrath, and in his haste to breed them as fast as he could, the Great Enemy did not bother to add scales to their bellies. A design flaw, you might say. And so…"

"'My warriors fired many arrows and threw many spears at the underside of this beast,' interrupted Fram. 'Few of them hit him, he moved so quickly. And those that did find their mark bounced off harmlessly, as if we had fired them at a mountainside.'"

"'Yes, yes,' replied Radagast. 'But there's a simple explanation for that you see. On his own merits, a winged Dragon has to be fast if he's to avoid having his undersides skewered. But if he can get his hands on a horde of treasure, one full of diamonds and other hard gems, or even of Mithril, then it's a different story. He can embed the gems in the skin of his belly, and then _they _act as the armour for his bottom half, just as they can also reinforce the Dragonscale armour on his top half. Would you say Scatha's underside was glittering, or was it silvery?"

"'I only saw the beast once,' admitted Fram dourly, 'and I didn't get a good look at its belly, as once my arrow was fired I was more concerned with running away from him and hiding in the forest. But I'd say his belly glittered – the Sun's light fair sparked off it, almost like many little rainbows.'"

"'Then his belly is covered with diamonds,' replied Radagast sagely. 'Your iron spears and arrowheads aren't nearly as tough as diamonds are, my lad, and that's why they bounced off old Scatha's paunch.'"

"'What use is this lore to me, then?' asked Fram impatiently. 'You're telling me that both halves of Scatha are invulnerable.'"

"'Young Man,' sighed Radagast, 'I must say it's a good thing you're a chieftain and a warrior, because it's plain you haven't got a head for book-learning. I said _nothing _of the kind, and indeed you didn't allow me to finish the point.'"

"'Then what is your point?' asked Fram bluntly."

"The point is that no Dragon can cover his _entire_ underside," replied Radagast with a wink. 'Their legs aren't long enough to reach every last nook and cranny. There's always _somewhere_ on a Dragon's belly, usually near the crook of an arm or leg, that won't be protected. Might only be a small patch of bare skin, but it will be as soft as butter. All you have to do is find it and then no enchanted weapons are required, Elven or otherwise. Good mortal iron or steel will put a Dragon out of his misery, as long as it's applied to his soft spot. So you see, slaying a Dragon is a simple matter, just as I said.'"

"'How does one find the soft spot in the first place?' asked Fram warily.

"'Ah, well,' admitted Radagast, 'that part might be a_ bit_ tricky in practice. It would be best to get him while he's on the ground, not in the air, and to fool him somehow or other into showing you his belly. Then you've got one chance – but only one, mind – to find his soft spot, and strike at it as fast as lightning, before he burns you too a crisp. _That's_ the really hard part, I imagine.'"

"'Indeed,'" replied Fram. 'But I can't just walk into Scatha's lair and ask him to roll over and show me his belly. How am I supposed to fool the beast?'"

"'Hmm, well,' replied Radagast, running his fingers through his long beard. 'What you need is a plan, and a good one. I've one idea myself…but you probably won't like it much.'"

"He told Fram his idea, and at first the Northman flatly refused to consider it. But then, as he pondered the matter, he began to realize two things. First, that there was no other choice; and second, that with luck and the will of the Northmen's gods, it just _might_ work."

The storyteller paused, and drained the last of his mug of thin ale. "More of this on the house if you please, Butterbur," said he. "Telling tales is thirsty work. And I think I've earned a pouchful of pipeweed, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," replied Butterbur, rising from his seat. He took several other orders for ale and pipeweed - in exchange for coin, much to his satisfaction - and soon the Bree-Men and Hobbits were drinking and smoking – an art discovered at Bree some centuries before - and the storyteller was blowing smoke-rings across the room. Even the Dwarf pulled out his pipe, and began puffing away to his heart's content. The old greybeard pulled up a stool, propped his legs on it, issued a final smoke ring, and then continued with his tale.

"Well, where was I," he muttered. "Ah yes, the plan. Fram talked it over with his daughter Freya, and she was very reluctant at first…"

"You haven't told us what the plan was, you old sot!" shouted Goatleaf, between puffs on his clay pipe.

"Don't interrupt me when I'm talking!" cried the storyteller. "One more word out of you, and I'll turn you into a frog and toss you in a puddle!" The Bree-Men laughed and cheered, and Goatleaf, cursing under his breath, held his tongue.

"I shall reveal the plan in the telling of the tale," continued the storyteller. "Now, to continue. Freya was very reluctant to agree to Fram's plan, but then he was her chieftain as well as her father, and she recognized there was nothing else for her to do. So, the next day, Fram and Freya, who had left little Freyr to Radagast's keeping, began their long journey northward to the Grey Mountains and the lair of Scatha the worm. They borrowed two of Radagast's own ponies, and each bore with them a token to display to the Bearserkers if they accosted them – 'Most of the shapechangers won't molest anyone who's a friend of mine,' the Wizard had promised them – and armed in this fashion they rode north without incident for some days. They met several of that burly, black-bearded folk, who smiled and waved when they saw Radagast's tokens. But when they heard the pair were set on dueling with Scatha the Worm, they turned pale and fearful, said prayers to their gods, and quickly retreated into the safety (as it seemed to them) of their own longhouses."

"The Bearserkers were a mixed lot, though, and one morning they had the misfortune of meeting one who cared little whether they were friends of Radagast the Brown. His name was Horsa, and he had a reputation as a brawler and a troublemaker even amongst his own tempestuous folk. His keen eyes caught sight of Freya from afar, and he determined at once that he would seize the beautiful maiden for his own use, and slay the man with her should he resist."

"He strode across his unkempt barley fields with extraordinary speed, leapt over a wooden fence, and planted himself in the muddy path before Fram and Freya, a stern, seven-foot tall giant. He was garbed in nothing but a bearskin vest and leathern pantaloons, and lacked both arms and armour. But his burly arms were folded across his chest, and his face glowered darkly."

"'Ho there!" he cried, in a deep, rumbling voice. 'What do you mean by trespassing across my lands, you mangy towhead?'"

"'Mind your tone, fellow!' shot back Fram, who for all his wariness of a hostile Bearserker waxed wroth at this insult to his pride. 'You speak to the Fram son of Frumgar, Chieftain of the Eotheod! Moreover my daughter and I are friends of Radagast the Brown.'"

"'Bah! Radagast the Birdcatcher!' spat Horsa. 'And who are these Eotheod you speak of? There was once such a folk, but there were all devoured by Scatha the Worm, 'tis said. I've heard tell those few who weren't snapped up by Scatha are cowering in the depths of Mirkwood.'"

"'I ride north to slay Scatha and avenge my people with his blood,' replied Fram. 'You would do well not to hinder me.'"

"'I won't hinder you, o great chief,' replied Horsa mockingly, 'as long as you first pay the toll.'"

"'By what right do you to apply a toll against me?' demanded Fram.'"

"'By right of the brawn of my arms and legs, and the wrath of my fangs and claws,' replied Horsa menacingly. 'Hand me the woman now, or this day will be your last!'"

"Freya drew back on her horse's reigns, edging away from the brewing fight, while Fram drew his sword and aimed its point at the Bearserker's throat. "'I tire of your bold tongue, peasant!' he shot back. 'Out of my path, or your head and shoulders part company!'"

"Horsa's features shifted and blurred suddenly, and Freya cried out in terror as fangs and claws sprouted where teeth and nails once had been, and thick black fur burst through rough, sun-bronzed skin. Where a moment before had stood a Man, there now glowered a ferocious, slavering Bear!"

"Fram's pony shrieked and foamed at the mouth in its fear, but before it could move the beast was on it, tearing out its throat with a single swipe of his massive paw. Fram leapt from its back just in time to avoid another fatal blow as the Werebear shot toward him. He thrust his sword at the beast, but with a third lightning-fast wipe of its paw it knocked the sword out of his hand and into the mud of the path. Then, it was on him!"

"Fram and the beast rolled in the mud, the werebear growling and slavering, slashing with teeth and claws, while Fram desperately used all his own brawn to hold it at arm's length. He knew that if it caught hold of him with its jaws for an instant, all would be over. But it was a losing battle, for no mortal Man can hope to best a werebeast in a contest of brute strength. The brute lowering its grinning jaws over Fram's sweating face, drooling foully on him as it prepared to sink its fangs into his skull."

"Then suddenly the beast screamed in agony and anger, and pulled away from Fram. He looked up, and to his astonishment saw Freya, his blood-dripping sword grasped in her slender hands! She had not stood idle, but had claimed Fram's sword for her own!"

"'Freya!' cried Fram, staggering to his feet. 'Point out!' She thrust the blade forward, just in time to deter the werebear from charging her directly. But the beast was only deterred a moment, and reared up on it hind legs, towering over Freya, bleeding from the deep gash in its shoulder that had been carved by her blade. It was full of bloodlust now, and no longer sought to ravish her as it had when still a Man, but to kill her outright and feast on her flesh."

"Without hesitation, Fram threw himself at the beast, which turned and struck at him with its massive paw, sending him crashing through the solid wooden fence by the path. But that instant was all Freya needed. Heedless of her peril now, she thrust Fram's sword straight into the wearbear's chest!"

"It reared back and screamed horribly, not with the savage snarl of a bear, but with the agonized cry of a dying Man! Then it fell to the ground with a sickening thud, its fur shedding rapidly as its features shifted to those of Horsa. The Bearserker lay there stone dead, Fram's sword embedded in his heart, a look of utter shock and disbelief carved into his coarse features."

"Freya, still not believing that she had found the courage to fight and slay the horrible creature, swiftly turned from the sight of Horsa's bloody corpse, and ran through the hole in the fence towards Fram. He lay sprawled on his back, with the wind knocked out of him, but she soon saw to her relief that none of his bones were broken and he was not seriously harmed. After some moments he stood to his feet, stared wordlessly at Freya, and then strode through the gap in the fence, standing over the corpse of Horsa. He pulled his sword from the Bearserker's chest, cleaned it on the bearskin tunic, sheathed it, and then turned to face Freya again."

"'My thanks,' he said wryly. 'I have never before owed my life to a woman, let alone my own daughter. In truth I know not whether to be thankful or ashamed.'"

"'Be neither,' she replied simply. 'We slew the beast together. Had you not distracted it, it would have disarmed me with a swipe of its paw as it had done to you. Then we would both lie dead instead of him.'"

"'Aye, true enough,' nodded Fram. 'Pity about my poor horse, though. And where is yours?'"

"'It threw me and bolted,' replied Freya glumly."

"'Then we shall have to hoof it ourselves,' said Fram. 'But first we'll replenish our stores from whatever we find in this brigand's hut, which I see lies yonder across the fields. Doubtless whatever we find there are ill gotten gains, and if the rightful owners aren't available we're as entitled to them to them as any man or woman.'"

"So Fram and Freya helped themselves to Horsa's stores of dried meat and tough waybread, and continued on foot towards the north. Horsa's body they left on the road, as a warning to others of the wages of brigandage and rapine."

"On and on they marched. Then, in time, Fram and his daughter left behind the country of the Bearserkers, and journeying ever northward came upon the remains of their own land. Alas! It was with a heavy heart that they saw league upon league of blackened, ashen wastes, and the ruins of countless longhouses that had once sheltered men and women who had either perished in their ruin, or languished now in the depths of Mirkwood. Fram's anger grew like that of a burning ember on the fire, which smoulders ceaselessly even as it consumes itself in its wrath. Freya, it is said, was both saddened and angered, yet it was she who saw that even as the autumn wore on blades of green grass sprung up here and there amid the wasteland. Hope had not forsaken entirely the land of the Eotheod."

"It was early November before Fram and Freya left behind the uppermost stretches of the Vale of Anduin, and followed the stream of the Greylin into the foothills of the Grey Mountains. That was a dark and dreary land, all the more so in the tail end of the year. The rounded hills were worn and tired-looking, as if they had stood for too many long ages under the Sun, and their rocky bones were veiled only here and there by sickly patches of moorland. Great boulders were strewn about the valley, as if a battle had been fought there by the Stone Giants in days long forgotten, and Fram and Freya had to weave their way between them as they pushed ever northward. Chill mists descended suddenly from the heights, and froze the marrow in the bones of both man and woman. And all about were signs that they drew nearer and nearer to the lair of Scatha, the great and merciless Dragon who had brought such pain and death to their kindred. His broad tracks could be seen here and there in the scattered patches of moorgrasses on the hillsides."

"For some days they walked on foot, until their nostrils wrinkled at the smell of brimstone, rotten flesh, and years of indescribable filth. Scatha's lair was very close indeed. Freya began to tremble, yet she dared not turn back. She knew that without her aid in their strategem, her father would have no hope of slaying the worm; and she also knew that Fram was so enraged by the Dragon's evil deeds that he would attack it by himself, even if it meant his certain death. Between her love of her father, and her desire to save her people, she had no choice but to push herself forward, though each footstep became more difficult than the last. She thought back upon her battle with Horsa the Bearserker, and hoped that she would find the same courage in her heart when the time came to confront Scatha the Worm."

"Fram, for his part, grew very silent, but his face had a dark and somber mien, and his icy blue eyes shone fiercely. This beast had ruined his land, slain countless numbers of his kinsmen, and nearly turned the rest of them against himself and his family. He thirsted for revenge, and by the gods he would have it! He hardly seemed aware of his daughter's growing fear, or of the peril they faced together. All his thoughts were on his hated foe."

"Then, through the evening mists, Fram and Freya could see a gaping fissure in a wall of rock, through which a distant, steady rumble could be heard. Now it was like the wind moaning over the moors, now like gravel sliding down a hill. Scatha's lair! The great beast was fast asleep, yet the sound of his breathing rooted man and woman to the ground where they stood."

"Now, the time came to put their plan into effect. Fram reached into his tunic and withdrew the charm that Radagast had given him in secret some weeks before. It was a crystal phile imbued with some dark, smoky liquid that seethed as if alive. He placed the phile about his neck, and spoke a secret Word which had been told to him by Radagast. Then he took his place behind a large boulder, knocked an arrow, and waited."

"Freya, her very limbs trembling with affright, backed away from the mouth of the cave. But she was not retreating from the terrible danger. Rather, she climbed the stony mountainside opposite the cave, scrambling up the scree and loose rock as he took her place some hundreds of feet above the valley floor."

"Then she turned about and, facing the cave, began to sing in a soft, clear voice. It was a mournful song that recounted the sorrows and suffering of the Eotheod since the depredations of Scatha some months before. She was accusing the Worm of the many crimes he had committed against her people, and doing so nigh to his very doorstep!"

"Deep within his lair, Scatha stirred uneasily, his ears troubled by unwelcome sounds uttered in a voice that brought to mind nauseating images of beauty and innocence. First one heavy bejeweled eyelid, then the other, lifted upwards, and ruddy beams shone forth from his close-set, serpentine eyes. For a moment, he listened in disbelief – and then sat up and unleashed a terrible roar!"

"_An intruder!_ Never before in his long and bloody career, not even in the far-off days when the Sons of Feanor strode across Beleriand like vengeful gods, had anyone dared to challenge Scatha before any of the lairs he had kept. And yet the being that sang in the valley this night was no gleaming Elf-Lord of the Elder Days, his eyes shining brightly with the pure light of the West of West. Scatha could tell both by the timbre of the voice and the words it sang that it belonged to a mortal female, and one of the Northmen's blood no less. Was she mad, to pit herself against a Winged Fire-Drake from whom the heroes of old had fled in terror?"

"Scatha was no fool, of course. He was as sly and crafty as all Dragons, and knew at once that this mortal woman was not inviting death out of madness or folly. Her purpose was obvious – she was bait in a trap, and she meant to lure him outside so that he would be exposed to an attack of who knew what sort from some accomplice or accomplices. Surely no mortal would be fool enough to confront him unless armed with an enchanted weapon, one supplied either by the Elves or by the Dwarves._ Their_ plan was clear enough to Scatha's greedy mind – to use these mortal dupes in order to slay him, and then take his magnificent horde for themselves. _Most likely the Dwarves are behind it, _he thought to himself. _Those miserable little creatures will not have forgotten that this treasure was sullied by their hands, before I claimed it for my own._"

"Scatha looked about at the vast mound of treasure on which he had slept, gleaming dully under the light streaming forth from his eyes. It was _his – _down to the last copper penny, and he did not mean to be parted with the slightest trace of it! He would find out who was behind the plan to despoil his horde, and then kill both the mortal dupes and their skulking masters. His vengeance against them would be so terrible that no one would ever again dare to cross Scatha the Worm! But first he would amuse himself by toying with the pathetic creature who sang in her feeble voice outside his lair."

"Smiling with grim humour, as only a Dragon can, he pulled himself up the long, low tunnel that led from the depths of the cave to a smaller antechamber that stood inside the cave's mouth. He sat there, his head filling the chamber, while his long neck and vast body remained hidden inside the tunnel. He knew that in the growing darkness his head could not be seen clearly from outside, even though he could see clearly the flaxen-haired girl on the hillside opposite the cave. Only his two long, narrow eyes, gleaming ruddily amid the shadows, would be visible to mortal sight."

"Meanwhile Freya, whose voice had faltered for a time as she heard the awesome power of the Dragon's roar, and faltered again as she saw the terrible gleam of its eyes within the darkness of its cave, began to sing in a voice once more loud and clear. She sang of the depths of her sorrow, and yet she also sang of hope amid her despair. The Dragon might slay and lay waste, but the day would come when the lands of the Eotheod would bloom green and fertile once again, and its people would live in peace amid the grassy fields."

"'What a beautiful song, my child,' said Scatha, speaking the tongue of the Northmen in a voice that was as deep as the bottom of the Sea, and yet as smooth and mellow as a ringing bell. 'If only you had come sooner to my abode! I have not had such pleasant company in many a long year.'"

"'You…you speak!' gasped Freya, whose song died at once as she gaped in astonishment and fear."

"'Does that surprise you, my dear one?' asked Scatha, his voice assuming an injured air. 'Do you think me a mere beast, a dumb and mindless animal?'"

"'I…I know not what to think,' she replied doubtfully. 'You are a Worm, a serpent, yet you speak as Men do…'"

"'A Worm!' exclaimed the Dragon. 'That is your word for my kind in your tongue, is it my sweet? Ah, you know so little of us, of our glorious past. In the Age of Heroes were we born, legion upon legion! We were amongst the proudest and the mightiest servants of the Lord of this World. Yet we are so few in these latter days, so few and far between. The time of my kindred draws near to its end.'"

"'Does it?' asked Freya, uncertain whether to feel hope or sorrow at the Dragon's lament for the waning of his race. Her mind felt strangely clouded, and she could not pursue any thought for more than a few moments. It was as if a thick fog had descended upon her, and she knew not which way to turn."

"'Do you not pity us?' asked the Dragon mournfully. 'Do you not pity me, my child? I am alone, and friendless. When I am gone, something of the glory and wonder of the Elder Days shall be lost to Middle Earth forever.'"

"'I…I had not thought of that…' said Freya, her voice trailing to a whisper (though one that Scatha's keen ears could easily hear). 'I had not realized…' To her own amazement, she began to feel pity well up in her breast, and to feel growing shame at her role in Fram's scheme."

"'No, you did not realize, my dear one,' chided the Dragon gently. 'You did not care for my fate, or for that of my kindred. There was no mercy, no pity in your stony heart, when you thought of Scatha. You did not think of what would happen, what the import would be, when you came here to slay me.'"

"'I did not come to slay you!' gasped Freya in sudden alarm. 'It was not my plan to do it!'"

"'Is that so, my child?' asked Scatha sweetly. 'I am glad, if that is true. It warms my old bones to think there is still goodness left in this Middle Earth in these latter years.'"

"'I swear to you,' replied Freya, whose mind seemed no longer her own, 'I mean you no harm, poor beast.'"

"'Then who does, my dear?' asked Scatha earnestly. His red eyes narrowed but a trifle. 'Who sent you here to help them kill me, and where are they now?'"

"As the Dragon awaited her reply, Fram, hiding behind his boulder, grew more shocked and fearful every second. Things were not proceeding according to his plan at all! The Wizard had warned him of the Dragon's Voice, but Fram had assumed he meant not to take affright at the beast's terrible roar. The last thing he had expected was for it to engage in polite conversation with his daughter!"

"Fram's mind raced as he pondered what he should do. The charm that Radagast had given him, once activated, rendered him invisible against a solid backdrop like stone or rock as along as he remained motionless. They had hoped that would buy him time until Scatha, lured by Freya's voice, climbed out of his cave in order to slay her. The nearby Fram, who could look up at the underside of the lumbering beast, could then find its patch of bare skin and fire his arrow at it – a special arrow whose iron tip the Wizard had dipped with a deadly poison. A daring and no doubt foolhardy plan, to be sure, but it had been the best Radagast and Fram could come up with."

"Everything had hinged on Scatha falling for the bait of Freya. Yet it was now all too clear that the cunning creature had no intention of striding forth from its cave, and exposing itself to attack. Worse yet, Freya's mind seemed overthrown, as if she felt only sympathy for the cruel beast who had destroyed her land and driven the remnant of her people into exile. He had only moments to spare before she revealed him and his hiding place to the Worm!"

"Meanwhile, the entranced Freya answered Scatha's questions in a soft, sleepy voice, as if she stood transfixed between the waking world and the land of dreams. 'I was sent by Radagast the Brown and Fram son of Frumgar,' she replied."

"'Radagast the Wizard?' asked Scatha, his smooth voice concealing his surprise. He knew something of the Wizards and their powers. Why would one of those meddlers seek to steal his horde of treasure? No matter – this Radagast the Brown would soon receive a most unwelcome visitor."

"'And who is this Fram son of Frumgar?' continued Scatha."

"'My father,' replied Freya. 'Chief of the Eotheod.'"

"'Aha! Is he!' replied the Dragon, who realized now that this scheme did not concern his magnificent treasure at all. It was a simple case of sought-for vengeance, perhaps inspired, and clearly aided by the meddling Wizard. Scatha considered carefully his knowledge of lore, and the means by which a Wizard might choose to aid a mortal in slaying one of the Dragon-kind.

"'What of your friends, my dear one?' asked Scatha, more sweetly than ever. 'You didn't come alone to these barren lands, and I smell more than one of you in this vale, even if my eyes are cheated and I cannot see them. Where are they hiding now?'"

"'My father Fram,' replied Freya listlessly, 'is…'"

"Suddenly a clacking sound, like metal hitting stone, echoed from a boulder just before the entrance to the cave, only a few yard's from the tip of Scatha's snout. Instantly, the Dragon surged out of his cave, his darting head affixed to his long, sinuous neck. His mouth hung open now, yellow fangs coated with dried blood, and steam issued forth ominously from maw."

"'So!' boomed Scatha, his voice harsh and cruel now, like knives sharpened against a grindstone. 'The Wizard might have made you invisible, wretch, but he cannot disguise your sounds! Or do you think to lure me forth entirely from the safety of my cave, and expose myself to whatever enchanted weapon the Wizard equipped you with?' He grinned evilly. 'Stand forth, and reveal yourself now! Or by Shadow and Flame, I shall burn your precious daughter to a cinder. She is well within reach of my fiery breath!' Freya screamed shrilly as the Dragonspell was suddenly broken by Scatha's menacing words."

"Meanwhile, now that more of Scatha's form was exposed thanks to the arrowshot, Fram searched desperately for any weakness. The Dragon's head and neck were exposed, yet its body was still concealed inside the shadows of the cave. Radagast had told Fram that he would remain invisible as long as he was motionless, but that he could be seen as a blur when he moved. He knew that he had little time before either Freya was killed, or a stray movement on his part was caught by the Dragon's keen eyes and he suffered immolation. Surely the beast held back from scorching the valley with its fiery breath only because it feared some enchanted weapon would be employed against it."

"Freya was terrified almost out of her wits, and yet she realized that the moment of truth was at hand. She could not assail the Dragon herself, but she could give her father the chance he needed."

"'Please! she screamed. 'Don't kill me, great Scatha!'"

"'Shall I spare you then, mortal?' sneered Scatha. 'Where is the wretch hiding? Tell me now! Or shall I turn this entire valley into a sea of fire, and consume you with it?'"

"'On the hillside above and to the left your cave!' she cried, 'waiting to ambush you from behind!'"

"Faster than the eye could see, Scatha surged out of his cave, twisting his head to the hillside above and behind him. A pillar of flame spewed out of his open maw, blasting the hillside and sending sheets of steam and molten rock spewing over the valley floor."

"Fram moved quickly, dashing out from behind the boulder. Scatha's back was turned to him, but he could see a dull patch amid his glistening armour, just underneath his right armpit as Radagast had predicted it might be. Aiming quickly, he knocked an arrow and loosed it at his foe."

"Scatha's keen eyes spotted the sudden movement in the valley to his right and almost behind him. Even as the arrow hit home, he whipped his head around on its long neck, unleashing at torrent of flame at the valley, scouring all about the spot where he had seen the blur of Fram's motion for an instant."

"When the arrow struck his one vulnerable spot, he bellowed in shock and range, wildly shooting flames at everything in sight. Then, even as poison set to work and his vision began to dim, the Dragon settled his black heart on one last evil act. His limbs were weakening from loss of his oily red Dragon's blood, yet still he found the strength to surge into the air on his massive leathery wings, and dive straight at Freya, trapped on the hillside!"

"Fram, who had taken refuge behind a boulder, was half-mad with agony from the Dragon's fiery assault. He had not taken a direct hit, but his armour was nearly red-hot to the touch, and his skin and hair were burned by the terrible heat issuing forth from the rocks that Scatha had seared with this breath. He stared desperately at Freya, defenseless on the open hillside against Scatha's final attack. Then his eyes grew dark, and he knew no more."

The storyteller frowned, and took a pull at his mug of ale. The crowd was silent and somber now, as they waited to hear the conclusion of the story.

"When Fram awoke, it was morning, a dreary, foggy day. He was still in pain, but his armour was cool, and he found the strength to stand to his feet. He saw the crystal charm that had laid about his neck shattered on the rocks – it must have done so when he leapt to save himself from Scatha's fiery breath. He could not see far amid the mists, but he willed himself to drag his frame between the boulders of the valley floor, and up the hill toward the spot where he had last seen his daughter."

"A terrible stench filled his nostrils, a and then vast bulk soon reared up before him in the mist. He recognized it for what it was – the corpse of Scatha the Worm! By chance or the will of fate, his arrow and found its mark and lodged deep in the Dragon's flesh. Fram felt his spirits soar, and began to call out for Freya, his voice echoing against the stony walls of the valley."

"He heard no reply, and began to feel a growing unease gnawing at his innards. He walked towards Scatha's lifeless head, its yellow Dragon's teeth projecting over its ruddy lips, and then saw that which turned his heart to stone."

"It was Freya – or what was left of her. The Dragon's last jet of fiery breath must have hit her directly, for no trace of her clothes or flesh remained. There instead were her blackened bones, exposed pitifully on the barren rock and talice of the hillside."

"Fram sank to his knees, weeping bitterly. All morning he sat and wept and cried aloud uselessly, for he knew his bitter anger could not be further assuaged now that the beast which had killed his beloved daughter was already dead. He left her charred bones exposed on the hillside with a prayer commending her spirit to the gods of his people, for in those days the Eotheod still practiced the heathen ways."

"Then, Fram turned his gaze at the vile beast who sprawled dead on the ground before him. Its teeth and mouth seemed arrayed in what was almost a mocking grin, even in death. Fram spat at it, and then said 'I'll wipe that smile off your face.' He set to work with his sword, cutting the smallest of the Dragon's teeth one by one from its glistening gums. It was hard work, and it took until nearly nightfall before he had removed a dozen of them, binding them together with his belt and carrying them under his left arm, for his pack had been consumed by the Dragon's flames. Without further word, he turned his back on that accursed vale, and set out to find the dwellings of his people by the Forest River in Mirkwood."

The storyteller then fell silent, and muttered something to himself which no one else could hear.

"A sad tale, indeed," said Butterbur mournfully, "even though the beast was slain in the end". He secretly hoped that the customers were not put off their drink.

"'All the tales of Middle Earth are bittersweet at best,' replied the storyteller, his blue eyes glistening keenly. 'Joy and sorrow can never be parted from each other under the Sun. But the tale is not quite finished. One last part remains, though you may like it no better than the first."

"It was near winter now, but Fram, though wounded and embittered, managed to find game enough here and there to survive his journey across the wastes of the Grey Mountains until he came to the place where the Forest River follows its course into Mirkwood. Then he followed the banks of the river, for he had instructed its people to encamp by its shores. It did not take him long to find them, for they had moved north as well as east, and dwelt near the edges of the wood."

"He was surprised by their encampment, for they dwelt in tents of fine cloth, and seemed well-fed and sheltered. As long as they stayed closed to the riverbanks, they were not harassed overmuch by the beasts of the wood. It transpired that they had been accosted by scouts of the Wood-Elves who, seeing that they were starving and desperate, took pity on them rather than punishing them for their trespass. Under the guidance of the Elven-King Thranduil, they had led the remnants of the Eotheod to the Forest River, and given them tents and provender as well as a generous allotment of seed-corn purchased from the Men of Dale and Lake-town so that they could survive the winter before returning to their own lands, or else settling elsewhere as they preferred."

"The people themselves were far more surprised to see Fram, and astonished when he showed them Dragon's teeth as proof that the terrible beast had been slain. They delighted to hear that little Freyr was safe with Radagast the Brown, who it seemed was not so forbidding as they had supposed, but grieved to hear of Freya's heroic death. Truth to tell, they felt guilty and ashamed that they had threatened their chieftain and his family in their darkest hour, and they soon turned on the handful of ambitious malcontents who had stirred them up against Freyr's House in hopes of leading the Eotheod themselves. These malefactors were soon fleeing for their lives from the wrath of an angry people, and disappeared into the depths of Mirkwood, never to be seen or heard from again. Fram himself was honoured as a hero, and the people drilled holes in some of the Dragon's teeth and bound them with a leathern strap into a necklace, which Fram wore about his neck for the rest of his days in testament to his mighty feat, the slaying of Scatha the Worm."

"The next spring, the people decamped from the Forest River, and returned to their own lands near the headwaters of the Anduin. There, where the rivers Langwell and Greylin blended their waters to form the mighty Aunduin, Fram built a new longhouse for himself, larger and sturdier than the old, and the people build their own houses within a fortified stockade. This became the first proper capital of the Eotheod, named Framsburg in honour of their chief, and Fram sent messengers to Radagast the Brown, who replied with his congratulations to Fram for his magnificent heroism, and condolences for the tragic loss of Freya. He also restored his grandson Freyr to him, who in Fram's absence had grown into a healthy, thriving toddler with a thick mane of golden hair. Fram was delighted to see the lad again, for in him lay the future of his House. And the people were glad, for the spring was bright and warm, with gentle rains and cool breezes, and the ash left by Scatha's fiery breath in the terrible year before proved fertile soil for wild grasses and for the seed-corn that Thranduil's Wood-Elves had given them in charity. They traded some of their corn several of the friendlier clans of Bearserkers to the south, in exchange for beasts of toil, wooden ploughs, and iron ingots for the smithies. Soon the land was green and vibrant, and appeared more prosperous than ever before."

"Now, it should be remembered that prior to Scatha's time, the people had dwelt in scattered farms, and it was a strange thing to them to dwell in a fortified town. But Fram had decided that now they needed to live together behind high walls, and find safety in numbers. The reason soon became clear – Fram knew from ancient lore that Scatha's lair might well contain a great horde of treasure, and as he thought more and more on it the shadow of greed began to stir in his heart, cloaked in a garb of righteousness. Now that his people were safe and restored to their ancient lands, and they had a secure and defensible capital, he meant to take the Worm's treasure for himself as _weregild_ - the blood-price for his daughter Freya - and he meant to guard it jealously against all comers."

"On Midsummer's Day, Fram led a party of warriors north from Framsburg into the Grey Mountains, bearing with them a wagon-train to cart away the spoils from Scatha's lair. They reached Scatha's dreadful valley in the middle of July, under a bright Sun that was hot by the standard of the Northlands. Fram cursed the name of the Worm, and waxed wroth as he gazed at the barren hillside where his daughter had perished the autumn before, and where Scatha's bleached bones and scattered Dragonscales lay picked-clean of flesh by crows – although the diamonds did not sparkle on the hillside as he had expected they might. Fram was thus in an ill humour indeed when he and his Men approached the mouth of Scatha's cave, and saw the unwelcome sight before them."

"For the cave was not abandoned, as they had supposed! A rampart of cleanly-hewn stone had been thrown up in front of the cave's mouth, and patrolling it were stolid, stocky Dwarves, heavily armoured in steel plate mail and armed with axes in the fashion of their kind. His face dark and brooding, Fram strode up to the foot of the wall, and challenged the Dwarves above."

"'I am Fram son of Frumgar,' he cried, 'Chieftain of the Eotheod. Who are you Dwarves to build a wall before this cave, and deny me the right to the Worm's treasure?'"

"'Who are you to claim such a right?' asked one of the Dwarves on the wall, in a gruff, burly voice."

"'I am the slayer of Scatha the Worm!' declared Fram proudly. 'See you not this necklace that I wear? This Worm despoiled my lands, and slew the greater part of my people, including by beloved daughter, whose bones lie on yonder hillside. I claim the Worm's treasure as _weregild_, the blood-price!'"

"'This treasure,' replied the Dwarf on the wall, 'was mined and smithied by the people of Khazad-Dum, ages upon ages before the fathers of the fathers of the Eotheod awoke beneath the first sunrise in the farthest East. It is the property of my people by hereditary right, stolen from us by the thrice-accursed Orcs, and from them by the Dragon. Now we have reclaimed it, forever! Not one penny shall pass into the hands of mortal Men, nor any other race.'"

"'You deny me then my _weregild_?' shouted Fram, his battle-scarred face livid with rage. 'Ungrateful, stunted wretches! Were it not for me, Scatha would dwell still in his lair, and not one penny of his horde would have fallen into _your_ greedy hands!'"

"'You have your necklace of Dragon's teeth,' scoffed the Dwarf. 'Take that as your precious _weregild_, and be off with you! Else the next reply you receive shall be my axe, embedded in your towheaded skull.'"

"'Forth, _Eotheodras_!' cried Fram, drawing his sword. 'Up the wall and at them!'"

"The Eotheod had come equipped with ladders, the better to carry Scatha's treasure up from the depths of his lair, so the stone wall proved but a trifling impediment to them. It was the Dwarves themselves who proved a serious obstacle. It turned out there were but two-dozen of them, less than a quarter of Fram's Men, but they were doughty fighters. Hard and stubborn, skilled with their axes, they fought to the death, all but one, and took more than thirty of Fram's warriors with them to the netherworld. That one who survived was the same who had challenged Fram from the battlements, and he fled into the valley, vowing revenge against Fram son of Frumgar and all the Eotheod."

"Fram dismissed the Dwarf's threats with scorn, and stared impassively as his grieving warriors lit the funeral pyres of their slain kindred. Then he put his Men to work, descending into the putrid depths of Scatha's lair, and returning with sack after sack full of golden, silver and copper coins, precious jewels, and wondrous works of craft."

"It soon became apparent that there was too much treasure for the carts Fram had led into the valley to handle, and that it would another expedition to remove the bulk of it from Scatha's lair. Fram set to work leading the effort, and near a hundred able-bodied who were not needed to defend the walls of Framsburg, till the fields about it or forge new arms and armour in its smithies were dispatched with carts to and from Scatha's lair, bearing more treasure than they had imagined existed in all the world. The people themselves were astonished at this sudden bounty, and thrilled by Fram's generosity, for even the small amount of treasure that he allotted to each of them was far more wealth than they otherwise could ever have hoped to earn in their entire lives. But Fram reserved the greater part of the treasure for himself and his most favoured warriors, those few who had remained loyal to him during the dark days of their exile in Mirkwood. He stored it in a large wooden barn that he built by his longhouse for the purpose, which was guarded night and day by those favoured warriors, who swore to defend it to the death."

"The people thought it strange that their chief preferred hording his treasure like a miser to displaying his vast wealth, but wisely kept their whispering to themselves. One item alone he kept in his own hall – a wondrous horn of silver with a baldric of green, which from which issued a note so loud, high and clear that it echoed from the walls of the Misty Mountains to the eves of Mirkwood. This Horn he named an heirloom of his House, and he meant it to be blown to summon the people outside the walls of Framsburg to safety within should danger threaten them again."

"Alas, danger threatened soon enough! It was in the early autumn of the year, a grey, drizzling day, and the people were preparing for the harvest festival when the guardsmen on the walls sounded the alarum."

"The men grabbed their swords and shields and rushed to the walls, Fram foremost amongst them. Before their gate they saw a small army of Dwarves, some hundred and two-score strong, all armoured and armed with axes, and equipped with carts and siege-ladders. Their bearded faces were dark and grim, and they glared angrily at the tall Northmen arrayed on the wooden walls above them."

"One of the Dwarves stood forth, and cried, 'I am Orin son of Dalin, Captain of the Royal Guard of Thrain son of Nain son of Durin, King under the Mountain. Where is Fram son of Frumgar?'"

"'I am Fram,' replied the chief of the Eotheod, his hand clutching tightly on the hilt of his sword. 'What mean you by coming here in force of arms? Speak?'"

"'Do you not recognize me, noble chief?' mocked Orin. 'We last exchanged words at the ramparts of Scatha's lair, before you slew twenty-three of my kindred and stole my treasure. I mean to avenge the one and reclaim the other.'"

"'Then you have come here in vain, Dwarf!' spat Fram. 'And your trained dogs slew thirty-two of my warriors. Nine lives are in the balance, and they are owed by you to me.'

"'We shall kill ninefold that number of your folk,' rejoined Orin, 'unless by morning you have thrown over your walls to us every last penny of the treasure of Khazad-Dum that you have unjustly gained.'"

"'I shall give you a greater treasure than Scatha's horde, Orin son of Dalin,' replied Fram, with a grim smile on his face. He pulled off his necklace of Dragon's teeth, and cast it over the battlements to land on the ground at Orin's feet."

"'There is your treasure, o Dwarf!' mocked Fram. 'The teeth of Scatha the Worm! And it is a greater treasure than any Dwarf has ever possessed before – for to gain it required _courage_, which is found in scanty store amongst your craven folk!'"

"'Enough talk!' shouted Orin, clashing his axe against his shield. '_Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!_"

"And with that, the Dwarves took up the famous battle-cry of their people, and launched themselves at the walls of Framsburg. The battle was long and grim. Well into the evening, the Dwarves surged up their ladders to the battlements, only to be thrown down, and yet climb up their ladders again and again. The clash of sword and axe against shield and armour echoed along the walls, and the cries of the wounded and the dying filled the hearts of the women and children of the Eotheod with pity and with dread."

"It was midnight before Orin and Fram finally confronted each other. It might have seemed an uneven contest to those unversed in the battle-arts of the Dwarves, for the mighty Northman towered over his diminutive foe. But Dwarves are quick and cunning in a fight, their armour is strong and well-made, and their stony flesh can endure many wounds that would slay beings less hardy than themselves. Three times Fram struck a blow at Orin with his longsword, and three times Orin sank to his knees, spewing blood from his wounds, only to stand upright and attack his foe again. Then, just when it seemed Fram was about to deliver the death-blow to his mortally wounded enemy, the Dwarf lunged between his long legs and severed Fram's left foot with a lightning-fast axe-blow. Fram screamed and dropped to the ground, and Orin buried his axe in the Northman's skull – though not before Fram, bellowing in defiance and rage, thrust his sword deep into the Dwarf's innards."

"Morning dawned pale and sad, and found Fram and Orin stone dead, yet bound together in their death grip, each skewered by the other's deadly blade. And many other such macabre pairs of dead Men and Dwarves lined the battlements. But there was no doubt as to the victor. Orin's people had put the lie to Fram's taunts of their cowardice, for they had attacked a people ten times their own in number, and holding a fortified position to boot. Nearly one-hundred and fifty Northmen lay dead – but so did all one-hundred and forty of the Dwarves. The Battle had gone to the Eotheod."

"The people mourned as they should, and performed the funeral immolations of Fram and his slain warriors according to their heathen rites. The necklace of Dragon's teeth was burned with him. The slain Dwarves they pushed into the waters of the Anduin, to find their rest on its muddy bottom. Freyr was but a toddler, but the surviving warriors, in memory of Fram's courage and out of loyalty to his House they ruled the people in council (though not without taking a substantial share of Fram's treasure for themselves as an honorarium in addition to the shares Fram had allotted them.) Thus matters stood until Freyr reached the age of manhood at sixteen. Then Freyr became the Cheiftain of the Eotheod, and from his citadel at Framsburg he carried on a line which became of royal blood in later years, and which still rules the people of Rohan to this day."

"Thus it was," concluded the storyteller, "that the ancestors of the Rohirrim gained the foundation of their fortune, though the price for Scatha's horde was paid with the blood of many of their people, Fram and Freya not least of all."

The crowd was silent for some moments, though it seemed suitably impressed, and the Bree-hobbits were tempted to give the old Man a round of applause for his tale. But they found themselves preempted by an angry outburst.

"What nonsense!" cried the Dwarf, slamming his mug of ale down on the table (and splashing it on several of the Bree-hobbits in the process.) He glared angrily at the storyteller. "This tale of yours is a slander against my people, old Man. To hear you talk, you would think that the towheads of the Eotheod had some right to the treasures of Khazad-Dum. They had none at all, curse the lot of them! The Rohirrim of our own day are naught but the heirs of thieves and arrant braggarts!"

"What I have spoken, I have spoken," replied the storyteller gruffly. "And the tale is not mine, but that of the Men of Rohan. I merely embroidered it a little. If you don't like it, I suggest you pay a visit to Edoras and take up your complaint with the King's Minstrel."

"Now now, gentlemen," interjected Butterbur, spreading his fat palms appeasingly. "No need for raised voices and angry words! I'm sure you're at liberty to tell your side of the story, Master Dwarf."

"He is indeed," declared the storyteller, cutting off the Dwarf before he could reply. "But not yet! I promised to tell you _both _of the national sagas of Rohan, and I mean to do so. For the tale of Fram," continued the old greybeard, "is a preliminary to _Eorl's Saga, _which I shall relate to you now."

The Dwarf muttered grimly in his own secret tongue, but the Men and Bree-hobbits ordered another round of ale (putting a broad smile on Butterbur's face) and listened as the storyteller, who had filled his clay pipe with more pipeweed from a leathern pouch and was now smoking it contentedly, began the second part of his story:


	2. Eorl's Saga

_Eorl's Saga_

"This tale took place some centuries after the time of Fram son of Frumgar, though it begins four-hundred and fifty years before our own time, in the days when Cirion was Steward of Gondor. In those days, the Eotheod had grown very numerous, building many new farmsteads and villages far beyond the walls of Framsburg, and the foremost of them were very rich (for reasons you have heard) and very powerful as well. From his high seat at the Great Hall of Framsburg their chieftain commanded the loyalty of all the Northmen who dwelt between the Misty Mountains in the West, the Grey Mountains in the North, the borders of Mirkwood in the East, and the Old Ford to the South. They had no rivals amongst Men in those parts, for their old neighbours the Bearserkers had been reduced nearly to extinction by perpetual fighting they had been drawn into with Orcs and Wargs (and I daresay with each other), while the humble woodmen who lived south of the Old Ford wouldn't have dared to challenge the power of Framsburg."

"Still, all was not as well as they might wish. I said they were both rich and numerous, and that is true, but their riches were in treasure more than in land. The lands of the upper Anduin themselves were being taxed by the strain of centuries of cultivation in a harsh climate, and the ever-increasing numbers of common peasants found they had less and less share in the great wealth of the descendents of Fram's most loyal warriors, who had taken a large portion of Scatha's treasure for themselves, and who come to rule the people as an hereditary aristocracy whom the chiefs of Fram's line opposed at their peril."

"Thus there were divisions within the people, and grumbling amongst the peasants, who pressed ever harder against the walls of the Misty Mountains and the sinister eves of Mirkwood in their search for new lands to put under the plough. Moreover, the Orcs were multiplying in the Mountains, and the Wargs in the depths of the Wood. Now that they had worn down their ancient and hated foes, the Bearserkers, these evil ones had begun to turn their attention to the rich and easy pickings (as they saw them) of the Eotheod, who had drawn themselves to their attention by encroaching on their own territories in Mountains and Wood. Many skirmishes were fought between them, and the Eotheod began to grow uneasy, and curse the enemies who hemmed them in as much as they cursed the poverty of their soil or their uneven share in the treasures of their nation. "

"But despite these troubles, it was in those days that the Eotheod acquired a new kind of treasure, and one that would forever change the history of their people. Now, the upper vale of Anduin has long been home to many fabulous creatures, from the mighty Dragons such as Scatha in ancient times to the diminutive _Holbytlas_ of the Northmen's legends…"

"I say!" objected one of the Bree-hobbits, stamping a hairy foot on the wooden planks of the floor. "We Hobbits aren't legends! We're sitting right here in front of you, for goodness' sake!"

"_I_ know that!" exclamed the storyteller, with an exasperated air. "But you were and are legends to the Northmen. Truth to tell, Hobbits in these days are nearly unheard of outside of the Shire and the Bree-land."

"But…" continued the Bree-hobbit.

"But nothing!" snapped the storyteller. "Now if I may be permitted to continue?" His bushy eyebrows lowered in a scowl, and the Bree-hobbit nodded silently and resumed pulling at his ale.

"As I was saying," remarked the storyteller, "there were many legendary creatures in the upper vale of Anduin. But the most fabulous of all were the _Mearas_, the enchanted horses of that land. It is said their sires were descended from the steeds of the Valar themselves, indeed those of Orome the Huntsman, who in the Elder Days oft rode the skies east of Valinor accompanied by many shining spirits to the lands of Middle Earth, where the Host of Oromoe would do battle with fell creatures birthed in the Age of Darkness. Be that as it may, the _Mearas _had the form of mortal horses, though of exceptional beauty, grace, and longevity, and blessed with many extraordinary powers. They could understand the speech of Elves and Men, when they cared to listen to it, and could gallop at such tremendous speeds that the greatest of their number could ride a distance equal to that from Bree to the Fords of Isen in three days."

The Breelanders stared with their mouths hanging open at this claim, while the Dwarf scoffed and turned his attention to filling his pipe from his own leathern pouch. The storyteller continued:

"But there was one thing no _Mearas _would ever permit, and that was to allow anyone – _anyone_, not even a High Elf of the West, let alone a mortal Man – to ride on his back like a common steed. For they remembered the glory of their forefathers, and would not suffer any less than a Maiar spirit, a servant of the Valar, to treat them as a beast of burden."

"Now in those days the chieftain of the Eotheod was Leod son of Grimold of the line of Fram. From his carved wooden high chair at Framsburg, he ruled as justly as he might, though he had few ideas how to assuage the growing land-hunger of his multiplying people. His wife was named Sigrun, and she was one of the comeliest ladies in the land, as fair of speech as of face and figure, though alas she plays little role in our tale."

"Leod and Sigrun had a son named Eorl, who at the time our story begins was a fresh-faced, golden-haired youth of barely 16 years. He was beloved of both his parents and his peers, not to mention all the young lasses of the realm. Perhaps he also attracted the jealousy of some of the powerful nobles who resented his close access to his doting father, but as a carefree youth he was blissfully unaware that any of them might harbour him ill will."

"Eorl had his share of differences with Leod, as lads of that age often do with their fathers. But there was one thing the two of them agreed on, and that was their passion for the hunt – the "Sport of Kings', as the Gondor-men have been known to call it. As soon as the hunting season began on at dawn Midsummer's Day, and until it closed at dusk on the Winter Solstice, Leod and Eorl could be found devoting every spare minute they had to charging across the woods and fields of their northern land in merry chase of their quarry."

"Of course, Leod could not spare as much time for the chase as Eorl, but more often than not they could be found hunting together during those months, often without any servants or guards accompanying them. Whether they succeeded or failed at the hunt – and it was far more common that they succeeded – Leod knew that their time had been well spent, for in learning how to follow trails, hide in bushes and copses, search the lie of the land, and wield weapons on horseback as well as on foot, Eorl was learning the skills he would need to take his place amongst the nation's warriors, and someday as their war chief."

"Now, one afternoon in late September, a gorgeous day in which the crisp autumn air was clear and dry, found Leod and Eorl by a bubbling stream near a Birch-wood some ten miles west of Framsburg, lapping up the cool water in their hands as they sought to quench their thirst. The chase had gone unusually poorly for them that day, and they had not so much as a Coney to show for all their efforts. They were both tired and dusty, and so at first they did not notice when their horses began to whinny and stamp their feet at the ground nervously. But when their steeds suddenly scream and shot off into the forest, Leod and his son shot up, their hands reaching for their swords to see what manner of beast and driven off their mounts in fear. There was a rustling from behind the bushes across the stream, and the two Men stood side by side, waiting to defend themselves from the charge of a wild boar or an angry bear."

"But when the saw what manner of creature stepped through the bushes to pause at the far bank of the stream, they lowered their swords, and stared in amazement. For it was nothing less than one of the Mearas! Its coat shimmered in the clear light of the Sun, as if it were sometimes white, then grey, then silver, then white again. Its lines were clean and smooth, more finely shaped than any mortal steed. Its eyes, dark and wise, stared calmly at the two Men for some moments. Then, without any sign of fear, it lowered its head and began to drink from the stream, while Leod and his son gazed enraptured."

"But as Leod stared at the magnificent creature, he was seized by the sudden passion to claim it for his own. To tame such a magical steed and through the streets of Framsburg would surely secure the everlasting admiration of the nobles and the people. Perhaps it was pride that stirred these thoughts in his heart; certainly it was folly. Almost as if in a trance, he began to edge towards the stream, whispering calming words while reaching for the length of rope that was clipped onto his leathern belt."

"The Mearas suddenly lifted its head up, its ears pricking up straight as it stared directly at the Man who dared approached it. It pawed the ground and gave a warning neigh, and Eorl tried to warn his father not to walk so close to the creature. But his urgent whispers went unanswered, as Leod worked the rope into a lasso, and readied himself to toss it about the Mearas' graceful neck."

"Now, what happened next is a matter of some controversy. There is an official Chronicle of the Kings at Edoras, beginning with preface concerning Eorl's father, which says that the Mearas was but a foal, and that Leod snared and brought it back to a grassy paddock near Framsburg, albeit with some difficulty as it struggled ceaselessly. That account states that a year passed and the foal grew to adulthood before the events I am about to describe, when Leod tried to snare it again so that he could begin to tame it into being his favoured steed for use in the chase."

"The tale I heard when the minstrels sang _Eorl's Saga_ was rather different, for in that version the Mearas was never captured by Leod. Perhaps it is the true tale, or perhaps a more poetical fiction invented by the minstrels themselves; I was not there, and cannot say. But in the saga, the fateful event that shaped Eorl's destiny took place took place in less than an eyeblink. Leod suddenly cast his lasso at the Mearas, even as the enchanted steed leapt forward across the narrow stream, neighing fiercely as it lashed out with its hooves. There was a flash of movement, a sickening thud, and then the Mearas was gone, vanished into the depths of the forest faster than a thought. Leod, his skull crushed by a single blow from the Mearas' hoof, fell to the ground stone dead!"

"For a moment, Eorl stood rooted to the ground with shock, his mind reeling. Just seconds before his father had been alive, healthy and strong – now he lay spawled out on the ground, his ruined face unrecognizable. Eorl dropped to his knees and put his ear next to his father's mouth, desperately hoping to hear any sign of breathing. Finding none, he grasped his father's broad wrists, but there was no pulse. Beyond any doubt, Leod's spirit had left its body, and departed for the halls of his ancestors."

"Eorl did not weep, for he knew his people felt that tears were unbecoming even in the face of bitter grief. Yet he could not help a single tear from rolling down his cheek, less for the sake of his dear father than for that of his beloved mother. How could he face her and bring her the terrible news that she was now a widow? For a long time, he sat on his knees, silent and full of sorrow. Youth, fickle and fleeting, was gone forever; he must face up to his duties as a Man."

"At length, Eorl stood to the ground, his now mind racing as he suddenly realized the consequences of what had happened. He was not simply his father's only living heir; he was now the Chieftain of the Eotheod! He had of course known this day would inevitably come, but he had never imagined it would come so soon. He began to feel the icy grip of fear on his spine as the weight of his responsibilities as a leader of Men bore down on him. Though he had by custom just reached the age of majority, he was barely more than a stripling, and he knew his people saw him as such. How could he hope to lead the warriors of his tribe, when all but the youngest of them were his senior in years and experience?"

"Shaking his head, Eorl turned for a moment and stared into the wood, down the path which the Mearas had followed in its flight. To his own surprise, for all his sorrow and his fear he did not feel rage against the beast, even though the laws of his people made him duty-bound to seek vengeance against it. It seemed to Eorl that Leod had tempted fate in seeking to tame a Mearas for his own, and the gods had chosen to punish him instantly and severely for his overweening pride. A mortal Man's time was short, and his place in the world was fixed by the gods. Woe betide him if he reached above his station! It was a hard lesson to learn, but Eorl never forgot it."

"Saying prayers over his father's body, he turned and began the long walk back to Framsburg; for he did not wish to build his father's pyre in the forest, but rather to cremate Leod before the walls of Framsburg as had long been the custom of the chiefs of his people. Not until late at night, well past the curfew, did he arrive at the gates of the town bearing the news that Leod had died in a hunting accident, and that he was now the Chieftain of the Eotheod."

"The people, who had been summoned to the public square, heard the news in grim silence. The gangly, trembling-voiced boy who stood before them did not seem to cut the figure of a chieftain in their eyes. The nobles, wrapped in their valuable furs, stroked their finely-combed beards and gazed at each other with eyes of flint."

"Eorl's mother Sigrun was devastated by the news of Leod's fall, but she had not the time to grieve. More than anything she was full of fear for her young son, and for herself now that Leod was no longer there to protect her. She knew better than Eorl the treachery and greed of the current generation of nobles who had grown fat on Scatha's treasure, and who oppressed the people with high taxes and many burdens. Leod had been a good man and an able fighter, but he had not been strong enough to bring the nobles to heel. What hope was her then for her son, now that he had assumed the mantle of chieftain?"

"It did not take long for her fears to be realized. Not a week passed after Leod's body had been recovered from the Birch-wood and burned on a pyre just outside the walls of Framsburg before the nobles turned against his son Eorl. After dawn and with a sudden rush into the Chieftain's Hall they fell upon him, swords drawn, ready for butchery. Eorl fled for his life, running from the hall towards the living quarters, and escaped only by the aid of a sympathetic guardsman who let him slip out of the back door and through the postern gate of the town's wall."

"The nobles were disappointed not to have slain their victim, but still counted his escape as of little consequence. Eorl had no followers of note, and a mere boy, unarmed and unmounted, would not last long in the wilderness. They placed a bounty on his head, lest he shun the wild lands to seek refuge in a peasant's hut, and turned their attentions to scheming against each other for the hand of Sigrun – for each fancied that he himself deserved better than any other Man the chieftainship of the Eotheod, and marrying the wife of the former chief was the surest way to stake a claim to his high-backed chair in the great hall of Framsburg. Sigrun for her part did her best to resist their advances, playing one against the other as she desperately bought time for herself and her son. She knew there was little chance he could regain the chieftainship, but she meant to keep that chance alive for as long as possible."

"Meanwhile, Eorl, weary and alone, had fled on foot. After many hours, gasping for breath from his exertions, he ran into the very Birch-wood where his father had been slain; for that was the nearest wood to Framsburg, and he could not risk being spotted from afar in the open country about the town. There was no longer sorrow or fear in his heart, but anger; anger at the black treachery of the nobles, who had sworn oaths by their own blood to serve Leod and his heirs loyally and to the death. Eorl vowed to himself that he would not allow the line of Fram, the legendary slayer of Scatha the Worm, to end with himself. But what was he to do? Despite the charity of a single guardsmen who had pitied him, he had no close-knit loyal followers to call his own. His friends were but striplings who would not dare to stand against the powerful nobles and their well-armed henchmen."

"He knew the peasants had long chafed under the heel of the nobles, and for a while he toyed with plans of stirring up a peasants' revolt. But he was wise enough for his years to know that such a course was fraught with its own perils; the peasants, once stirred up, might just as easily turn against his own line as against the nobles, for the House of Fram had proved of little use in resolving the peasants' growing plight. And in any case, there would undoubtedly now be a price on his head that would make it dangerous for him to reveal his identity to any man."

"So he wandered through the wood, his thoughts twisted and grim, until he came at length to the very place where his father had been slain by a cruel twist of fate. Once again the sadness he felt for his father's loss welled up within his breast. Yet spring still gurgled merrily, unaware of the rage and sorrow of the young man who stood staring into its watery depths."

"Suddenly, Eorl heard a shuffling in the bushes across the stream, and looked up. To his shock, he saw staring back at him the very Mearas who had slain his father but a week before! This place must long have been its watering hole, and he could not mistake those deep, dark eyes for those of any other of its kindred."

The Mearas stepped forward, as if to drink from the stream. But its eyes remained on Eorl, and for a moment it stopped and stood where it was, staring at him.

"'By the laws of our people, you owe me _weregild_ for the death of my father,' whispered Eorl, though he knew there were no means by which he could ever make the enchanted steed repay the debt it owed him."

"In the blink of an eye, the Mearas leapt lightly over the stream and landed on the near bank, standing directly beside Eorl himself. Eorl backed away carefully from the beast, wary of its deadly hooves. He did not wish to give the gods an excuse to permit the Mearas to slay him as it had slain his father. Yet he could not take his eyes off those of the Mearas, which stared at him directly, without any sign of fear or of hostility, and whinnied softly. It almost seemed to be trying to speak with him, though Eorl could not imagine for the life of him what it wished to say. It almost seemed to him, as if the thought were whispered in the back of his mind, that it asked for his forgiveness. But surely, that was impossible. What then did the beast desire?"

"At that moment, something happened which Eorl would never have imagined in his wildest dreams. Slowly and deliberately, the Mearas lowered first one leg, then another, until at length it sat upon the ground. Now staring up at Eorl, it neighed and snorted, gesturing with its head toward its waiting back."

"Eorl could not believe his eyes! Was this creature, which had killed his father for daring to attempt to lasso it, now inviting him to sit upon its back? Eorl feared a trap, feared that the beast meant to slay him as well as it had slain his father. Perhaps the gods had turned against his house, and meant to stamp out the line of Fram entirely? But there was no treachery in the creature's calm, dark eyes, and it merely sat where it was, calmly and expectantly."

"Slowly, as if in a dream, Eorl moved toward the Mearas, reaching toward it with and outstretched hand. It was death to touch a Mearas, he knew, yet as he stared into the creature's eyes he dared fate all the same. Slowly, tentatively, he stroked a single finger along the creature's snowy mane. It shuddered for a moment, freezing Eorl's blood with fear, but then relaxed, and sat as quietly as before as he ran his fingers through the silky hair."

"Then, daring ever further, Eorl moved beside the Mearas, turned, and very gently sat upon its waiting back. It shuddered again, and neighed, loudly this time. Eorl once again felt his blood run cold with fear, but there was no going back now, and no time to react. For faster than a blot of lightning, the Mearas leapt up and took off like an arrowshot towards the edge of the forest!"

"Eorl, who had never ridden bareback before, sunk his knees into the Mearas' strong flanks, and held onto its snowy mane for dear life. As the trees whipped by, faster and faster, and he ducked and dodged them to avoid being smacked across the face, Eorl felt his fear turn to sudden elation. The Mearas was so fast, and yet its hooves hit the ground so lightly, that it seemed as if he were riding the wind itself! Eorl could not longer contain his joy, and let forth a jubilant cry as the Mearas plunged out of the wood and into the open country. It was evening, and the stars and Moon were out, but Eorl could see its course as plain as day. It was heading straight for Framsburg!"

"Eorl wondered, but did not seek to turn the Mearas away from the place which he had fled that very morning. Faster and faster the Mearas raced over the open fields, eating up the miles, until it seemed to Fram as if he and the Mearas stood still, and the world itself was flying past them. Within but a few minutes, Fram suddenly found himself within arrowshot of the walls of Framsburg, and heard the cries of shock and alarm from the guardsmen on the walls as this incredible steed and its dimly-seen rider soared toward the gates."

"Fram began once again to panic, for it seemed him that the Mearas meant to ride straight into the heavy oaken gates, dashing itself and its riding to pieces against them. But instead with a sudden leap into the air it soared over the gates and the battlements, full thirty feet high, and landed in the broad street beyond as lightly as a feather!"

"Its dash across the fields at an end, the Mearas now trotted proudly down the main street of Framsburg, stamping its feet and neighing proudly as it carried Fram to the public square, and right toward the broad doors of the Chieftain's Hall, where it came to a sudden stop."

"The people of the town, summoned by the alarm bell that the guards rang from the battlements above the gate, rushed out to see what was the matter. The Mearas continued to neigh loudly as it stood in the square, and soon all the grown men and women and many of the children of the town had assembled there, staring in wonder at the magnificent horse, his hide silver-grey in the twilight, and at the radiant young Man whom they suddenly recognized with shock and wonder as their exiled rightful chieftain Eorl son of Leod."

"The nobles soon appeared on the scene too, accompanied by some of their hired toughs. They threw open the doors of the Hall, demanding to know why the alarm had been rung, and why the people had assembled in the square without a summons from their betters. Their angry shouts and threats soon fell into a dismayed silence, as they saw Eorl proudly mounted on a magnificent steed which they knew at once could be nothing less than one of the Mearas themselves."

"'People of Framsburg!' cried Eorl, his voice suddenly clear and strong. 'Men and Women of the Eotheod. My kinfolk!' The crowd waited silently for him to continue, while the nobles and their henchmen fingered their swordhilts, hesitating to rush and strike against a Man who had defied fate to mount one of the sacred steeds of the gods, one of those Mearas whose speed and deadly accuracy with their hooves were legendary."

"'A great injustice has been done unto my House, and unto all of you!' cried Eorl. 'Look upon these evil creatures who call themselves Men, and who stain the steps of my father's Hall with their presence!' The Mearas neighed angrily, and Eorl continued. 'Oaths they have taken, to Lord and Land; yet they have broken them all! The Goblins of the Mountains and the Wargs of Mirkwood have more honour than these shameless beasts!'"

"'Be silent, brat!' cried one of the nobles, finally finding the courage to loosen his tongue. 'Your line has ended; your days are done! Soon your mother shall marry one of us, and the Eoethoed will have a new chieftain. The people need to be lead by a real Man, a Man of wisdom and experience, not a callow stripling. Know you not there is a price of five-hundred gold pieces on your head, whom any Man or Woman may collect if they strike you down where you stand? Begone to the wilderness, and take your precious steed with you!'"

"'Fool!' cried Eorl, laughing scornfully. 'It is your day that is done. The gods themselves ordain it! Has any Man before, in all our legends, so much as laid one finger upon a Mearas and lived? My father died for even attempting to tame this one. Yet this Mearas has submitted to my yoke, freely and of his own will, as _weregild_ for the death of my father. _Felarof_ I name him, and his submission to me is proof for all the world that I am favoured by the gods. The gods have spoken, my people!'"

"'Aye, they must have!' cried one voice from the crowd. "No other Man could have tamed that magical steed!'"

"'Eorl is our rightful chief!' shouted another. 'Not one of those dogs on the steps, who would rob a blind widow of her last crust of bread!'"

"'Back!' cried the nobles, drawing their swords. 'Back, you swine, or we shall…'"

"They never got to finish their threat, for with an angry bellow Felarof charged into them, striking faster than the eye could see with his deadly hooves, and felling them left and right. The crowd soon joined in, their pent-up fury against years of oppression by the greedy nobles suddenly unleashed. Though armed only with walking-sticks and pitchforks, they threw themselves against the nobles and their few remaining henchmen (most of whom had dropped their weapons and run as soon as Felarof had sprung into action). For all their weapons, most of the the nobles proved themselves to be cowards when faced with an enchanted steed to one side, and an angry mob to their other, and sought to follow their henchmen by fleeing to safety. But the people would not allow it; their revenge was swift and terrible. Some of the peasants were slain, but very soon it was all over, and not one of the black-hearted nobles was left alive. Eorl son of Leod was now the uncontested leader of the Eotheod."

"The guards of the Chieftain's Hall, who had watched the skirmish without intervening, now bowed their heads and saluted their young chieftain. 'Hail Eorl son of Leod!' they cried. 'Hail Eorl the Young!' Soon the people took up their cry, as Felarof gently bowed and Eorl leaped gracefully to the ground, patting the steed along its shimmering flanks. He was soon joined by his mother, who embraced her son with joy, and marveled that he had tamed one of the Mearas for his own. Thus it was that Eorl the Young became the chieftain of the Eotheod, and began a rule as fair and just as it was illustrious with fame.'"

The storyteller paused to take a pull from his mug of ale, and refill his pipe. Then at length he continued:

"For nine years after the accession of Eorl to the Chieftain's seat, his people enjoyed increased prosperity. Eorl seized the estates of the wicked nobles, and divided them amongst the people, which did something to ease the burden of their poverty, though there will still too many of them for such a narrow, infertile land. For himself he claimed the nobles' gold, and added it to his own store. But the people were grateful to him, and Eorl the Young was soon beloved by all for his benevolence, and admired by all for his mastery of the magnificent Felarof."

"Eorl himself, when he was not engaged in the petty affairs of the realm, spent as much of his time as possible on horseback, learning to work with Felarof till each instinctively knew the thoughts and promptings of the other. Guided by his intuitive understanding of the Mearas' moves and temperament he trained his own guardsmen and select warriors to master their own mortal steeds as he had mastered his enchanted one. This horse-mastery soon became a passion that inflamed all of the people; inspired by their Chief's example, they set to work on their own horses, treating them as best they could, and at Eorl's encouragement doing their best to learn how to ride them swiftly in the chase and in mock-combat. Within the space of a few years, the Eotheod began to fashion a force of citizen-cavalry whose fame soon spread beyond their own borders, particularly after several incidents in which Orcish Warg-riders from the Grey Mountains, who had sought to raid Eorl's lands for easy plunder, found themselves thoroughly routed by the horse-masters of the Eotheod."

"This was the state of things when, one fine day in early Spring, when Eorl was twenty-five years old, a strange visitor arrived at the gates of Framsburg. He was mounted on a graceful sable steed, but it was his clothes and his appearance which captured the attention of the people. He was as tall as a Northman, but his black hair was accompanied by sun-bronzed skin, and his grey eyes were wise beyond their years, belying his clean-shaven face and youthful mien. His cloak and tunic were black, and his elaborately-engraved armour, on the breastplate of which was engraved the shape of a tree, was made of polished silver that gleamed like a mirror and glared brightly in the Sun. In his right hand he carried a lance on which was affixed a pennant; on it was displayed an image of white tree on a field of black. "

"He was of course one of the Gondor-men, the inhabitants of that fabled land far to the south of the Eotheod, who were reckoned by all accounts to be the mightiest, wisest and most noble Men in all the world, descendents of the legendary Sea Kings from the dawn of time. Approaching the Chieftain's Hall and being permitted entry, he bowed before the Chieftain's high seat and addressed Eorl directly. He spoke the Common Tongue of the West in an archaic, formal dialect which was unknown in the Wilderland of the Upper Vales of Anduin; though Eorl, based on his knowledge of the rough-and-ready dialect of the Common Tongue in use amongst the traders and merchants of his people, managed to piece together the Gondor-man's meaning."

"The visitor introduced himself as Gelion, Herald of the Army of the Northern Front. He then proceeded to unroll a scroll of parchment, on which were inscribed flowing characters whose likeness was a mystery to the Eotheod; for while no longer unlettered, in those days they wrote only using runes learned from their cousins in Esgaroath and Dale."

"Gelion began to read from the scroll, in a loud, clear voice:

_From Erendras, General of the Army of Gondor, Northern Front, to Eorl, Chieftain of the Eotheod – Greetings._

_Whereas it is known to all that the Northmen of Rhovanion and their kindred peoples have long been friends and allies to the Men of Numenor-in-Exile, and in particular to the Southern Kingdom, to Gondor of Anarion's line, _

_And whereas our peoples have long been enemies of the Easterlings of Rhun, who were pawns of the Dark Lord of old, and remain savages to this day,_

_And whereas one of the said Easterlings, a beast in the guise of a Man who stiles himself Ashgarkan, Scourge of the Westrons, has massed a great army of those Easterlings known as the Wainriders,_

_And whereas these Wainriders menace the frontiers of Gondor, bastion of the Men of the West, with invasion and ruin, and have vowed to slay every Man, Woman and Child west of the Anduin who does not submit to their yoke, _

_And Whereas Gondor, determined to preserve her sovereign majesty and honour to the bitter end, yet stands in need of the comfort and succor of its true friends and loyal allies,_

_Therefore my lord, the Steward Cirion of Minas Tirith, authorizes me to entreat you, O Noble Chieftain, to remember the ancient alliance between our peoples, and to send what troops you may, in particular your renowned cavalry, to the aid of Gondor's Army of the Northern Front at the Field of Celebrant. For which service, the thrice-renowned Eorl son of Leod shall have the eternal gratitude of the Steward of Gondor, which is not a prize that is conferred lightly, and the said Eorl son of Leod may ask of the Steward any boon that is in the Steward's power to grant in the name of the King who shall Return._

_Signed on this day, etc., General Erendras."_

"The herald then folded up the scroll and stood impassively as Eorl pondered the communication that he had just received. For all his youth, Eorl was not naïve; he knew that Gondor's plight must be very dire indeed to send for the aid of a young chieftain from a distant northern land, whose people had not at any dealings in peace or war with the South Kingdom for many centuries, since before the days of Fram son of Frumgar. Nor would the proud Steward of the land offer to confer "_any _boon in his power to grant" on a northern foreigner unless the situation were truly desperate."

"Eorl's instincts would have been to politely decline the summons and spare his young men much bloodshed, but for the fact that the Wainriders of Rhun were not unknown to him. Centuries before, even before the time of Fram son of Frumgar, the ancestors of the Eotheod had lived in the plains of eastern Rhovanion, near the borders of the River Running. Then a large raiding-party of those Rhunlings known as the Wainriders had surged out of the East on their bronze, horse-drawn chariots, whose axles were tipped with vicious whirring blades that could cut a Man in two. More cruel than any Orc, the Wainriders' savagery and bloodthirstiness proved without limit as they fell upon the Eotheod, driving them west through the perils of Mirkwood until they found sanctuary in the upper vales of Anduin, their suffering at the hands of their Easterling foes unavenged."

"Other tribes of Northmen in alliance with the Gondor-men had stayed that horde of invading Rhunlings in those far-off days, but now it appeared that at long last they had returned, and in greater numbers than ever. There was not only the current peril to the Westlands, nor the promise of the Steward's gratitude and reward for Eorl to consider – there was the _weregild_ owed to his people for the deaths of their ancestors at the hands of the Easterlings. The blood of many Wainriders must flow before the debt they owed would be repaid in full."

"'I look favourably on your words, Man of Gondor,' said Eorl at length. 'But I must summon the menfolk of my people in general council, in our tongue an_ Althing – _the first such council of our people in some centuries, if I am not mistaken. For though it is my duty as chief to lead the people in war, I have not the power in myself to force them to go to war against their will. Moreover, I will not risk the lives of our young Men in a battle that does not directly concern us – at least, not yet – without their approval. Nor shall I discuss what I might ask of your Steward as a token of his gratitude for our aid until the _Althing_ is under way."

"'The battle we face at Celebrant shall determine the fate of all those who live in the Westlands,' Gelion replied grimly. 'But I am encouraged that you shall hold a council on this matter. I shall be happy to attend and present Gondor's case if my lord Eorl wishes it.'"

"That I do wish, Herald Gelion,' replied Eorl. 'The summons shall go out this day, and the _Althing_ shall take place in the public square here at Framsburg before the Moon is next full."

"And it was as Eorl had commanded. The summons went forth by messengers on horseback, and all Men of the Eotheod above the age of 16 years were commanded to appear before the gates of Framsburg with their horse (if they owned one), provisions for two month's ride, and whatever weapons were at their disposal. Gelion agreed to wait at Framsburg as Eorl's guest, until the day of the althing, when the _Eohere_ (the full muster of the fighting-men of the Eotheod) had been assembled."

"That day at last arrived, and it was bright and clear, with a fresh spring breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the meadows. But the innocence of the day belied the grim purpose for which the Men of the Eotheod assembled. They ranged from tough, seasoned veterans of many skirmishes with Wargs and Orcs to beardless youths who had never before wielded a spear or an axe in battle. The Chieftain had not stated the reason for calling the muster of the _Eohere_ to an _Althing, _but it could only have been to consult with them on a decision whether to go to war, and to begin the march at once if the decision was to go forth in arms to battle. Full seven-thousand strong they were, their weapons gleaming in the Sun, and to Gelion's seasoned eye what they lacked in professional garb, armament and discipline they more than made up for in desperately needed numbers.

"Standing on the battlements over the main gate of Framsburg alongside Gelion, and flanked by his bodyguard, Eorl began to address the _Eohere_ assembled in _Althing_. 'My brothers,' cried Eorl, 'I have summoned you here to discuss a matter of the gravest import. The Man who stands beside me is named Gelion, Herald of the Gondorian Army.

He has told me that a peril has arisen in the East, which threatens to drown the Westlands in a sea of flame.'"

"'By the Westlands you mean Gondor, no doubt,' scoffed one of the Men assembled, an aging, grizzled veteran. 'The Gondor-folk are always quick to ask for the aid of others when they've gotten in a scrape too big for them to handle, but stingy enough when it comes to returning the favour.'"

"Gelion turned to Eorl, as if wishing to respond directly to this taunt, but Eorl shook his head and continued."

"'Be that as it may, Halfold son of Grimarth,' Eorl continued, 'this peril is not unknown to the Eotheod, nor is it confined to the lands of the Gondor-men alone. You have all heard in your childhood the terrible legends told of the Wainriders, have you not?'"

"There was a murmur amongst the crowd now. The cruelty and savagery of the Wainriders were proverbial, and it had not been forgotten that their ancestors had been dishonoured by the Wainriders many centuries before, when they had been forced to flee the plains of Rhovanion for the upper vales of Anduin without exacting upon the Wainriders sufficient _weregild_, the blood-price that alone could avenge the slain."

"Eorl seized upon this very point. 'Brothers, the blood of our ancestors cries out for vengeance! We are numerous and strong. Shall we not meet these Wainriders in battle, and exact from them the price that is due?'"

"'Honour demands it!' cried one man from the crowd. 'Blood for blood!' cried another. A growing murmur of assent began to stir up the crowd. But then Halfold son of Grimarth spoke again:"

"'Fine words, oh Chieftain!' he replied. 'No doubt they flow easily from the tongue of a young man like you, inexperienced in the arts of war. But a veteran such as I am knows well the horrors you would thrust upon us!'"

"Some of the men began to boo and jeer, but Eorl motioned for them to be silent. 'Speak, Halfold,' he said. 'Let us hear your objections point by point. It is to air and then to sweep away such doubts in public that I called this _Althing_ to begin with.'"

"'My points are simple,' replied Halfold. 'You seek to lead us to war for the sake of a distant land, which has not conferred any aid on our people, on the Eotheod, for as long as can be remembered. Even in the long-vanished days of Fram son of Frumgar, when Scatha the Worm devastated our land – where was Gondor? Where is Gondor when Wargs from Mirkwood and Orcs and Goblins from the Misty Mountains launch raids against us today?'"

"Halfold's remarks began to stir a change of mood in the crowd, and they began to eye Eorl and Gelion doubtfully. Halfold, sensing the sudden shift in mood, continued:"

"'Aye, you all know well that Gondorians call no Man 'friend' unless he is of use to them. They think us barely more than savages, and have always looked down their long noses at all the tribes and nations of the Northmen.' He paused briefly, staring defiantly up at Gelion, whose sun-bronzed face was an unreadable mask. Then he concluded, "Men of the Eotheod! Do not lay down your lives, and make your wives into widows and your bairns into orphans, for the sake of Gondor! Let the South Kingdom look to its own problems, and let us live in peace!'"

"Some of the men began to cheer and clap at this speech, while others began to argue vigorously with each other, their raised voices surging up and down, back and forth like the rapids and eddies of a mountain stream. But then Gelion, without seeking permission from Eorl, held up his hand and addressed the Eotheod in a loud, clear voice:"

"'Men of the Eotheod!' he cried. "It saddens me to hear that Gondor thought of so poorly by some of you. For our part, we have only ever had the highest esteem for the Northmen, despite the slanders you have heard just now.'"

"Halfold looked set to reply, but Gelion cut him off and continued his speech. 'Mark me well, Men of the Eotheod! Yes, you may decline Gondor's appeal for aid in war and return in peace to your wives and children – for now. But not for long!'"

"'The tribe you call the Wainriders of long ago, who assailed your ancestors and drove them into these lands, were no doubt related to the Wainriders of today, if only in that all the Easterlings are from the same stock, and many of them have long fought in horse-drawn chariots.'"

"He paused significantly, and then continued. 'But the Wainriders of our own time are not just a single tribe! Their leader, named Ashgarkan, whom many hold to be more a demon than a Man, has united _all _of the Easterlings under his banner! All of the vast lands that lie east of the Sea of Rhun, far towards the lands of the Rising Sun, are under his sway! He rules all the vast lands of the East with an iron fist, and exacts the last ounce of tribute from the vassal-peoples he has conquered, who are now nothing more than his slaves.'"

"Gelion pointed a long arm towards the East. 'Look towards the Rising Sun, Men of the Eotheod, for there lies your doom! We have learned Ashgarkan is not content to rule the East alone. Late last year his maurauders devastated Dorwinion, ruining the trade of the Northmen of Lake Esgaroth and of Dale. But these things are only in passing. Ashgarkan intends nothing less than the conquest of the whole of the Westlands! If he is allowed to cross the Anduin in force and defeats the Army of Gondor, there will be nothing to stand in the way of his conquest!'"

"'Gelion then frowned. 'I will not deceive you, my friends. Gondor is hard put to it. Our Army of the North has twenty-thousand Men – Ashgarkan has nearly ten times that number.'"

"There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd, most of whom could not conceive of numbers of Men so vast. 'Then it is hopeless!' cried one voice. 'We must pray to the gods, they alone can save us all!' cried another."

"'My friends,' exclamed Gelion, 'it is said your gods help those who help themselves, and shun those who give into despair. Now listen! Ashgarkan is mighty in his cavalry, yet he is not without weaknesses. He has few archers, no infantry, certainly no sailors. He has no means of crossing the Anduin but by fording over the shallowest parts.'"

"'The fords to Gondor proper are well defended against maritime assault,' continued Gelion, 'so it is not surprising our scouts report that Ashgarkan plans to cross the shallows to the north of our lands, into the Field of Celebrant. It is there that our Army of the North awaits him. But while we have light and heavy cavalry as well as infantry, we have not the numbers to divide our forces. If Ashgarkan attacks head on, we shall mow down the Wainriders like a scythe mows down autumn wheat – but still they will continue to attack in wave after wave. And in the end, they will defeat us, and all lands west of the Anduin lie open to ruin.'"

"'Then why do you not send more Men to defend your own frontiers?' demanded Halfold, who remained unmoved by Gondor's plight.'"

"'We dare not deploy any more Men north than we already have,' admitted Gelion. 'Mayhap living here in the distant North as you do, you do not realize the role Gondor has long played in defending the Westlands, or that we are besieged on practically all sides? The bulk of the Steward's troops are deployed along our Eastern frontier by the Anduin. Every day they fight and skirmish with the foul Orcs of the Morgul Lord, who has long oppressed our province of Ithilien from his accursed lair at Minas Morgul. And the Steward's only forces in the West are garrisoned at the tower of Angrenost; too few to make a difference. The soldiers of our sister provinces and cities from Lamedon and Anfalas, Pelargir and Lebennin, and Dol Amroth and Belfalas are deployed along our coastline, defending it in common cause with our Navy against the constant raids and harassment of the Black Corsairs of Umbar. To lessen our defences in either East or South the better to defend our Northern marches will simply be to exchange one doom for another. What use is it to repel the Easterlings only to be conquered by the Umbarians or the Morgul Orcs?'"

"The crowd was silent now, and Gelion continued. 'And I assure you, my friends, those foul folk are no better disposed toward you than the Easterlings. There is no Power in this Middle Earth that truly respects the sovereign independence of the nations of the Northmen, other than Gondor. We are the bulwark of the West, without whom you cannot hope to preserve your liberty!'"

"The crowd began to murmur again, more favourably now. 'Then what is it you ask of us?' enquired one of the younger men."

"Gelion smiled. 'You are assembled here in cavalry, and it is more cavalry that we need! Our General Erendras' plan is that while the Wainriders assail our fortified position from the East, your riders, lying in ambush, will attack them from the North. The Wainriders will be thrown into confusion, and forced to split their forces. Then our archers will go to work, and our heavy infantry after them, aided by our light and heavy cavalry as opportunities arise. The advantage of the Wainriders lies in their lightning speed and maneuverability over open ground. There are fierce, yet they lack discipline, and man to man ten of their impetuous warriors are not worth one of our heavily armed and armoured, disciplined, professional soldiers. Once the charge of the Wainriders has first been slowed, then diverted, and finally ground to a halt, they will be bogged down and helpless before the assault of our archers and our heavy infantry. We will mow down the very last of them like a field of ripe grain, and our cavalry will drive those who flee the battlefield to drown in the Anduin! The days will then be far off indeed before the Easterlings ever again menace the Westlands.'"

"The men assembled consider this plan, and began to loudly debate it, some counseling in favour of the participation of the Eotheod, other counseling caution against the smooth words of this finely coiffed outlander. But then a familiar voice once more raised itself above the crowd."

"'And I say again, let Gondor defend its own lands!' repeated Halfold stubbornly. 'Fate governs all things, and no man knows for certain whether your battle against the Wainriders will go well or ill with or without our aid. If we do aid you, we may still ride to our doom.'"

"'Then you will not be moved either by your Chieftain's appeals to honour, or mine to reason?' asked Gelion, doing his best to restrain his temper against this loudmouthed troublemaker."

"'I'm not a child to be talked down to, Gondor-man,' scoffed Halfold. 'Let me put it to you plainly, since it seems your wits are dulled by the hot Sun of the Southlands. If you want our help then you should pay for it, as old tales say you paid your Auxiliaries of Northmen in elder times. And since you are desperate, you should pay for it dearly indeed! Yea, if our blood is to be spilt to aid the Gondor-men, then Gondor should pay for it with gold, and account for every last drop!'"

"Naturally, this argument found immediate favour amongst the crowd, and the tide turned swiftly against Gelion, whose face was marred by a frown. But before he could reply, Eorl the Young intervened:"

"'My brothers, is it payment you demand as the price for coming to Gondor's aid?' asked Eorl, directly and to the point."

"'Aye, why not?' cried one. 'One good turn deserves another!' The crowd murmured its assent, and Halfold beamed smugly."

"'The Herald Gelion,' replied Eorl, 'has informed me that we shall have the gratitude of the Steward of Gondor if we win this battle against the Wainriders.'"

"'A prize that is not conferred lightly,' nodded Gelion, repeating the text of his message."

"'Yet light is its worth,' scoffed Halfold, 'unless it is backed up by gold!'" The crowd cheered him loudly.

"'Do you mock the Steward of Gondor, fellow?' shot back Gelion, whose diplomatic training could no longer mask his anger at Halfold's abuse.

"'Peace!' cried Eorl. 'Brothers, I ask again, do you demand a price of Gondor in exchange for our aid? Yea or nay?'"

"'Yea!' shouted theMmen assembled, thumping their spears and axes against their round wooden shields. Eorl held up his hands again, and the crowd fell silent. He then turned to Gelion.'"

"'The _Althing _has spoken,' said Eorl gravely. 'The Eotheod shall come to Gondor's aid only if Gondor meets our terms.'"

"'And what are those terms?' asked Gelion warily. Truth to tell, he had secret orders to bribe the Northmen with promises of gold if necessary, but not unless there was no other choice. Things now appeared to have reached that point."

"'It has been suggested that gold should be the price,' observed Eorl. '"But I say unto you that this land has had gold aplenty since the far-off days when Fram son of Frumgar slew Scatha the Worm, and claimed Scatha's treasure for our people. Perhaps we have had gold in surfeit, for it fed the growth of a greedy, oppressive nobility of which you have but lately rid yourselves.'"

"The people nodded in assent to the wisdom of these words, and Eorl continued:"

"'Brothers, our need is great, but it is not for gold. It is for land!'"

"Gelion looked up sharply, his skin turning pale as he realized that Eorl had sprung the trap on him. Eorl grinned broadly and continued. 'Well you know that our people are cramped in the narrow lands between the Mountains and the Wood, and that we struggle ever more to feed ourselves from the meager soil in these parts. Would you not rather live in a wide, open land, where the soil is rich, the grass is plentiful, the Sun is warm, and every Man may have his own broad farmstead, rather than scratching a living off a few poor acres!'"

"'Yea!' roared the crowd, whose love of their native soil was for the moment drowned in their desire for their own large estates, and for a better life in a gentler clime."

"'There you have our price, Herald,' announced Eorl, a broad smile on his handsome young face. 'I know from the tales of old that Gondor was once far bigger than it is, and that many of the lands under your Steward's rule are empty and unpeopled. If you wish for the aid of the Eotheod at the Field of Celebrant, and we have the victory, then your Steward shall display his gratitude by granting us our own land of our own choice in the South in which to settle, and which we shall rule as our own.'"

"'But if you do not help us, there will be no lands for any Westron!' cried Gelion. 'We shall all be enslaved or exterminated by the Easterlings!'"

"'Brothers,' exclaimed Eorl, turning again to the crowd, 'shall we demand land in plenty from Gondor as the price for our alliance with them, and for making war upon the Wainriders at Celebrant? Yea or nay?'"

"Yea!' cried the men assembled, once again thumbing their weapons against their shields. Eorl silence them, and then turned back to Gelion.

"'The _Althing_ has again spoken,' said Eorl, 'and though I am Chief it is beyond my power to gainsay its decisions. If Gondor wants our aid, it will pay the price in conferring on us our own sovereign land in the South. You may take these terms or leave them. What say you?'"

"Gelion stood silent for some moments, his mind racing desperately. He knew that it was far beyond his own authority to confer a grant of any of Gondor's land to foreigners, let alone to agree to sever off entirely and forever part of Gondor's territory to form another sovereign nation. If he consented to Eorl's terms, he could find himself on trial for treason and usurpation of the Steward's authority if he ever again set foot in Minas Tirith."

"And yet, General Erendras had commanded him to return with the cavalry of the Eotheod _by any means necessary_ – those had been the General's precise words. He knew his head would be no more secure on its shoulders if he returned to the Field of Celebrant empty handed than if returned having made a concession for which he had been granted no authority. And even should he be spared military justice, he would die soon thereafter on an Easterling's blade unless the Eotheod dispatched their cavalry to Celebrant. "

"What was he to do? He was familiar enough with the ancient customs of the Northmen to know that an _Althing, _though very rarely called to assembly by the chieftains, was held to be the supreme national authority of each of the Northmen's tribes. Its decisions were always final, andcould not be reversed by threats, pleas or rhetoric. He pondered the matter, and then made the only decision he could, while placing his fate in the hands of Eru.'"

"'Gondor accepts your terms, Men of the Eotheod' cried Gelion, though his voice was thin and trembled slightly. 'In exchange for your aid at Celebrant, and if we have the victory on the field of battle, our Steward Cirion shall grant the Eotheod your own sovereign land in the South. Its boundaries shall be affixed by mutual consultation and agreement of the Steward Cirion and of your Chieftain Eorl son of Leod.'"

"'Done!' cried Eorl, spitting on his right hand and clasping Gelion's in order to seal the bargain. As a wild cheer rose up from the men assembled, Gelion smiled thinly and nodded curtly at Eorl, while delicately wiping his hand on the cloth of his tunic."

"'Ready yourselves!' commanded Eorl, addressing both the men at arms in the field and his own bodyguard. 'We ride for Celebrant in one hour!' Now that the _Althing _had made alliance with Gondor and declared war against the Wainriders, its authority was at an end; Eorl assumed at once the mantle of War Chief, whose commands must be obeyed without question until the victory was attained. "

"'Gondor is grateful for your speed,' replied Gelion softly. Still in a state of disbelief over what he had just agreed to, he reflected ruefully that a Herald's life was far from an easy one. Thus he did not notice that Eorl turned to Halfold and winked at him, while the aging veteran – who had saved his life from treacherous nobles nine years before by allowing Eorl to escape from the Chieftain's Hall – grinned knowingly at his master.'"

The storyteller paused again, and took another pull from his mug of ale.

"Fresh out, Butterbur," he nodded. It appeared that the other guests had drained their mugs as well, and the Innkeeper was soon busily scurrying about, the smile on his face growing ever broader has he raked in more coppers. Meanwhile old Goatleaf asked sourly:

"What about the battle then? Are you ever going to get to it, or do we have to listen to more long-winded speeches? My old grandsire always said that a story without…"

"Goatleaf is so fond of speechifying himself," interjected the storyteller, "that he grudges listening to the speeches of others." There was a round of laughter, and Goatleaf cursed quietly before burying his long nose back in his mug of ale.

"To move on to the battle then," said the storyteller. "The Eotheod divided themselves into Eoreds, that is, companies of horsemen, each grouped by their home region and led by an able and experienced warrior. Eorl and his bodyguards, with little time to bid farewell to their families, soon rode through the gates of Framsburg accompanied by Gelion. Eorl naturally rode the magnificent Felarof, and all the Men gazed in wonder at the enchanted steed, whose snow-white coat shimmered in the Sun. Even Gelion was amazed that such a creature would serve any mortal Man. Eorl took his place at the head of the _Eohere,_ while Felarof, whom it seemed all the other steeds both feared and respected, neighed so loudly and was of so proud an aspect that he almost appeared to be a general in his own right."

"They rode south for many days. Spring, first cool and rainy, waxed warm and bright, the days grew longer, and the Sun grew hotter and climbed higher in the sky. Skirting the Misty Mountains to their West, they forded many streams, and passed the Gladden Fields – known to the Gondor-men as the place where the legendary King Isildur met his doom long ago. But the Eotheod knew little and cared less for the tales of Gondor, and pressed southwards with nary a thought for Isildur. Gelion alone paused briefly to reflect on the ancient tales of the fallen King, before turning his mind back to the present."

"At length they came to the eves of the Laurelindorean, the Golden Wood, more often called by the Elves of these latter days Lothlorien, the Dream of Lorien that lies in the West of West. Now for the first time the enthusiasm of the Northmen was curbed, and they fell silent and began to look uneasy. Their people had long feared and distrusted the Elves - though the Elves had given them little cause for such prejudices – but more than any they feared the Elves of the Golden Wood. Their legends said it was ruled by an Elven Witch, whose power was so great and terrible that she could enchant any Man to his doom. It was well known that the few mortals who had been brave or foolhardy enough to set foot in the Golden Wood had never been seen again. Yet now the Eotheod had to pass through a narrow plain that lay between that Wood to the east, and the valley that led westward to the Mines of Moria, a grim place of evil legend where…"

"Now _that_ is truly intolerable!" shouted the Dwarf, slamming down his mug once again. He glowered at the storyteller. "Khazad-Dum, the birthplace of the Dwarven-kind, the City of Ten-Thousand Wonders, a 'grim place of evil legend'? Where do you learn such nonsense, you old tosspot?"

"Have a care, master Dwarf," replied the storyteller, his blue eyes glinting in warning. "Not every 'old tosspot' is what he appears to be. And _you_ should know better than most that the evil reputation attached to Khazad-Dum – the Mines of Moria, as Men call them today – has been more than well deserved since the days of Durin VI."

The Dwarf looked taken aback, and almost appeared anxious for a moment. But then his stubbornness soon reasserted itself. "No matter that Khazad-Dum has fallen into darkness in these sad times," he said, "your tale does nothing but feed the ignorance of these peasants." The Breelanders looked surprised at his rudeness, but even old Goatleaf refrained from rebuking him, for his aspect was very proud and fierce. "And as for the Elves of that accursed wood," continued the Dwarf, "well might the horse-boys distrust them!"

"Now you're the one feeding the ignorance of these – rustic folk," replied the storyteller bluntly.

"Perhaps you'd be willing to offer your own account of things, when this gentleman has finished his tale, Master Dwarf?" interjected Butterbur hopefully, trying once again to maintain the peace between these two strong-willed guests.

"I'd be more than happy to set the record straight if he ever does finish his fairy tales!" replied the Dwarf.

"And I'd be more than happy to finish my tale – which I shall in due course, if I suffer from no further interruptions," rejoined the storyteller. He took another pull from his mug of ale, set down his now extinguished clay pipe, and continued:

"On Gelion's advice, Eorl halted the march of the Eotheod in that plain, and sent scouts ahead to the Field of Celebrant to make contact with the Gondorian Army of the North, and learn from them if there was any news of the whereabouts of the enemy. Gelion accompanied the scouts to vouchsafe for them when they were spotted by the Gondor-men, while Eorl and the bulk of his own men encamped amid the evening twilight in the meadows between the crystal streams of Celebrant and Nimrodel."

"The night passed into day, and day into night again. On that second night at the encampment, the Moon rose bright and full, and the starlight was uncommonly keen and clear. The Misty Mountains reared up like a jagged black shadow to the west, but to the east the outermost eves of the Golden Wood seemed veiled in mist. The Men were quiet and watchful, for something about the mist, which shimmered in the starlight, struck them as uncanny. The horses were restive and uneasy, but for Felarof; he was keen and alert, and his ears were pricked as if he could hear things the others could not."

"Eorl, who had withdrawn from the warriors to the privacy of his tent, found himself as restive as most of the horses and their riders. It had seemed a light thing at the time to gamble his life and those of his men in order to gain new and better lands; but now that the prospect of a terrible battle drew nearer he began to feel gravity of the daunting challenge before him, and the terrible burden of his responsibility for the lives of each of his warriors, from the oldest veteran to the greenest stripling."

"As Eorl paced back and forth within his tent, his ring-mail clinking with every long stride, the scouts returned accompanied by Gelion. All were grim-faced and silent, and Eorl stared at them gravely."

"'What news?' he asked. 'I need not possess the second sight to tell I will not be pleased with what you have to say.'"

"'Indeed not, my lord,' replied one of the scouts. 'It appears we are too late. The Gondorian army is already surrounded by the enemy!'"

"'What?' cried Eorl, his shock blanching his youthful features pale as snow."

"'The Rhunlings must have crossed the river Anduin sooner than we had anticipated they would,' interjected Gelion. 'My comrades are encamped on a low hill which forms the only high ground in these parts. Their backs are to the treacherous marshes of the river Limlight, and their front and flanks are to the enemy. They have fortified the hill with trenches and obstacles, to frustrate a cavalry charge by the enemy; but there is no doubt they are trapped. There are no means of escape or retreat from their position. General Erendras surely did not intend to be caught in this vise; he had planned to lay traps and pits all across the Field both to slow down the enemy's advance, and leave open our lines of retreat. Alas!'"

"'How then shall we fight?' asked one of the scouts. 'The Gondor-men are surely doomed.'"

"'The Men of Gondor shall sell their lives dearly,' shot back Gelion hotly. 'And you saw yourself from afar, under the light of the Moon, that their position is fortified by field works. The enemy will not be able to use their deadly chariots to their advantage, but will have to dismount and attack on foot. Our archers can hold them off for some days before they breach the barricades.'"

"'Aye,' said Eorl, 'no doubt. But I am more concerned about the situation for my own men at the moment. We had meant to scout out the Field of Celebrant, to prepare suitable hiding places so that when the Waindriders crossed the river we could take them by surprise from behind. But the tables are turned, and all surprise is lost; how shall we approach the enemy now? It would be a wonder if this Ashgarkan's scouts have not already spotted our own camp, and are not at this minute bearing news of our arrival back to their chieftain.'"

"'My lord Eorl,' replied Gelion, choosing to honour the Northman with the title, 'if I may offer my advice as a career soldier, you have but two choices; to rouse your Men and attack at once, or to retreat entirely. To retreat will spell the doom of Gondor's army in the North, and the victory of the Rhunlings, of these Wainriders, over all the Westlands. If even one-fifth of them turn north to despoil your own lands then you shall be hopelessly overrun, village by village and farm by farm, and your people exterminated or enslaved like cattle. The menace from the East must be defeated here and now, if it is to be defeated at all. Therefore, I pray you, rouse your troops and ride out at once to do battle against the enemy! You may lose the element of surprise, but I deem that a less evil fate than sitting here waiting to be surrounded yourselves, or than retreating to a certain doom with your tails between your legs.'"

"Eorl was silent for some minutes, though he took several careful glances at the faces of his men. They were grave, but he did not see fear our despondency in their clear blue eyes. If the rest of the men were in the same mood, then he had no doubt they would do what was required of them."

"'We fight,' declared Eorl simply. 'Guntram!' he cried, and a young lad, bearing an elaborately-carved silver horn with a baldric of green slung from his shoulder, stepped through the flaps of the tent and stood to attention."

"Turning to the boy, Eorl said, 'Take up your station, raise the Horn of Fram – aye, that very horn my forefather claimed from Scatha's horde ages ago, which you are entrusted to bear – and sound the alarm. Rouse the Men, and let the Eotheod know that we ride to war this very night!'"

"'As you command, my lord,' nodded Guntram, his young face keen and eager for his first battle, with the lusty passion of a youth who believes himself invincible. He turned and dashed through the flaps of the tent, taking up his position. A few moments later, the entire camp leapt to its feat as two sharp, clear, ascending peals rang out from the Horn, again and again in succession."

"The shouts of Men and the cries of horses echoed across the camp, as the warriors doused their cooking fires and pulled up the stakes of their tents, their company commanders cursing them in colourful language for their lack of haste. Eorl, who hastily buckled-up his own sword-belt and strapped on his green-plumed silver helmet, strode out of the tent, followed by Gelion and the scouts. As Eorl's servants pulled down their master's tent, and Gelion and the scouts took the reins of their own horses, Eorl pursued his lips and whistled sharply. But a few moments passed before Felarof cantered up before him."

"'You have not failed me before, my friend,' said Eorl, gently stroking Felarof's shimmering mane. 'But now we shall both be put to the test!' Felarof neighed proudly, and with a smile Eorl gently mounted his steed – who tolerated neither reins nor saddle – and urged him forward, toward the southern edge of the camp. The scouts rode off to their own duty-stations, but Gelion rode his own black stallion, reared on the grassy plains of Calenardhon, in the wake of their chieftain."

"Eorl waited for some minutes as the last traces of the camp were torn down, and the men mounted their steeds and formed up in their companies. Then, once the vanguard of the cavalry had formed-up behind him, he issued orders to their commanders, and the entire body of the Eotheod, 7,000 strong, began their ride under the stars to their destiny of the Field of Celebrant."

"They soon crossed the shallow stream of Nimrodel, and began riding over the grassy plains in the direction indicated by Gelion and the scouting-party. Eorl, frowning with concern, knew there was little he could do to disguise the passage of so large a body of men on horseback, for the thundering hooves of so many horses could be heard in the air and felt in the ground for many miles off. He was brooding so darkly over the complete loss of surprise, and the price his men were bound to pay for it, that at first he did not notice the mists that began to curl around the Eotheod, wrapping them in clammy tendrils that almost seemed like fingers. Felarof neighed loudly, and Eorl suddenly looked up, realizing that the light of the Moon and Stars was entirely blotted-out by the mist. Yet strangely, the Eotheod did not find themselves shrouded in darkness. A dim light seemed to shine through the mist, like moonlight seen through a veil of cloth, enough that the men could still make out each other's forms."

"'Close up formation,' said Eorl to the commander of his vanguard. 'We don't want anyone getting lost.' Strangely, he but dimly heard his own words as they came out of his mouth, and the commander's reply was barely audible."

"Then with a sudden shock he realized that he could no longer hear the hooves of the cavalry at all! Had he suddenly been struck down with deafness, just when he needed all his physical prowess to survive? Yet the faces of his men suddenly seemed shocked and fearful. They began gesturing to each other, as if none of them could clearly hear each others' words. Eorl felt a chill run down his spine, as he realized that the pall of silence had begun as soon as the strangely illuminated mist had enveloped his army."

"He felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to face Gelion, who had ridden up beside him. To his surprise, Gelion's face did not look fearful, and he seemed almost elated. Eorl struggled to hear his words. "Sudden luck…Lady…fate…" But he could understand the Herald's meaning."

"Eorl rode on regardless, for he saw nothing to be gained by remaining in the eerie, silent mists any longer than necessary. Yet it was not long before something dark loomed up in the mist in front of him, and he gave a hand signal that brought the vanguard, and soon the entire Eohere to a sudden halt."

"Eorl rode carefully up to the mass, his sword drawn. Gelion and half a dozen of his vanguard accompanied him, and soon saw that it was in fact a broad, high-wheeled chariot, with two deadly-looking blades projecting three feet beyond the hub of each wheel. Eorl recognized it at once, from the ancient tales, as one of the chariots of the Wainriders!"

"Giving the hand-signal to ready the Eohere for action, he strained his eyes searching for any sign of the horses or riders; yet, he could discern none. Why would a chariot be abandoned in the empty plains in such a fashion?"

"Gelion dismounted, and began to search the ground on foot. A score of paces beyond the chariot, at the edge of Eorl's vision, he stiffened, and then suddenly gestured for Eorl and his men to approach."

"As Eorl neared the Gondor-man, he saw through the mists what had attracted his attention – the bodies of two short, squat Men, armoured in bronze plates, their shaven pates each decorated with a single lock of long black hair. Each of the Wainriders (for such they obviously were) had been slain by a single, white-feathered arrow apiece, which had smashed through the bronze armour and buried itself in their heart of its victim."

"Eorl gazed in puzzlement at the sight, not sure of what to make of it. Had there been some sort of feud between two pairs of Wainrider scouts, and had this pair been slain by the others and their horses stolen? It would not have been a surprising thing in an ill-disciplined army of Easterling barbarians. Yet the arrangement of the bodies suggested that they had been slain instantly and unwares, not after any sort of prolonged quarrel or struggle."

"Gelion broke off one of the arrow-shafts, and examined it closely for some moments. Then his face shone into a broad grin, and a shouted at Eorl and his men as loudly as he could through the sound-dampening mists:"

"'Galadhrim…scouts destroyed…path is clear…the Lady favours us…'"

"Eorl stared at the arrow in wonderment, nodding silently. Gelion was saying that the arrow-shaft was of Elven make! Eorl thought upon Gelion's words, and soon realized their import. These Wainrider scouts had doubtless spotted the Eotheod, perhaps as far back as their camp, and had been speeding back to the main body of their army to bring warning that they faced attack from behind. Yet they had failed in their mission, for a party of Galadhrim Elves, who must had ventured beyond their lair in the Golden Wood, had ambushed and slain them in the field. Their panicked horses, which had doubled back along their route with their chariot when their masters were slain, had been set free; the bodies of the Wainriders had been left where they had fallen."

"'Shall the Golden Wood-Elves aid us in battle then?' shouted Eorl, though he could barely hear is own words. Gelion frowned for a moment, then gestured about with his long arms, and cried back in reply:"

"'Doubtful…the Lady…mist…aids us…ride swiftly.'"

"Eorl realized then, with another shiver down his spine, that this strange mist was no coincidence, no trick of nature. It was a work of sorcery conjured up by the Elf-Witch of the Golden Wood herself, to hide the Eotheod from sight and hearing until they reached the field of battle! Eorl thanked his gods that the dreaded Elf-Witch, for cryptical reasons known only to herself, had chosen to aid the Northmen with her arts rather than hinder them. He nodded to Gelion, who mounted his steed, and signaled to his men. The _Eohere _soon resumed its swift passage over the grassy plains."

The storyteller paused for a moment, as if deep in contemplation. Then he looked up at the crowd, his blue eyes shining keenly, and said, "Now I'm interrupting my own story, but I'd be amiss if I didn't address a calumny in the Rohirrim's tale – yes, another one Master Dwarf, though this one is against the Elves."

The Dwarf grumbled into his long plaited beard, but said nothing. The storyteller continued, "The Golden Wood of Lothlorien is a dangerous place for mortals to trespass, to be sure, but the Lady who rules it is beyond reproach. More than that – she is a greater friend to Men than most of them can possibly imagine, or will ever know. The ancestors of the Rohirrim, like the Rohirrim themselves today, feared her only out of their own ignorance and superstition."

"You speak as if you know her yourself," scoffed old Goatleaf, who had begun to smoke from a greasy, battered-looking clay pipe.

"And what if I do?" rejoined the storyteller, much to the crowd's surprise. But he waved off any questions, and continued his tale:

"Now, at this point in their song, the Minstrels of the Rohirrim break-off from their description of the ride of Eorl the Young and his Men across the Field of Celebrant. They invite the listener to imagine the dreadful army of the Wainriders, and the fearsome chieftain Ashgarkan in all his power and magnificence. The image they paint is largely their own creation, of course, for their ancestors could not have seen first hand precisely what they describe; yet of old they were familiar enough with the Easterlings and their ways for their account to have the ring of truth to it, and for my own part I believe it to be not too far from the facts."

"Picture, if you will, the Field of Celebrant near the Marshes of Limlight in the pale twilight that precedes Dawn. The Field looks more like an anthill, for it is festooned with thousands of wicker-framed felt tents, and swarming with a mighty horde of bronze-armoured Men, on foot and on chariot, preparing for another assault on the Gondorians. Outlanders have many names for them, from Wainrider to Rhunling, but they call themselves the Balcoth. Many are encamped beside their bronze war chariots, but those nearest the Gondorian encampment are entirely on foot – the trenches and field works prepared by the Gondorian infantry make a cavalry assault impossible. Yet despite this obstacle, the fierce faces of the Balcoth are keen and eager, for they smell blood on the air, and sense their victory is near."

"Amid all this restless stir of Men there is a great wicker-framed tent of scarlet wool felt, surmounted by a roof of brilliant azure. If one entered through this tent, heavily guarded by elite warriors, one's eyes would take time to become accustomed to the dim light within. Then it would become clear; though the smoky air, mounted on a throne of bronze, to which are chained concubines from a dozen conquered nations, and beside which are stationed ever-lit braziers, is Ashgarkan himself!"

"He is near six feet tall with a shaven pate, save for a black pony-tail. He has a strong build, a scarred face, and terrible amber eyes. His teeth are filed to points to enhance the ferocity of his appearance, a necklace of human teeth lies about his neck, and he drinks fermented mare's milk from the skull of his elder brother, who he killed early in his career in his quest for dominion. His tent smells foully, for the skulls and rotten severed heads of enemies, prisoners and failed underlings hang on leathern straps from the rafters, a warning to those amongst his lackeys who might dare to challenge his power. He is possessed of a cunning and subtle mind, and had he been born in another time and place, he might have been numbered amongst the Great, and even the Wise. But it was his fate to be born in a grim and savage land, and that circumstance has made him what he is – a merciless tyrant, all of whose thoughts are bent on war and the conquest of the World. Having subjugated the known lands of the far East in his youth, he has now turned his attention to the lands of the West."

"Outside, as the ruddy light of the Sun now shines above the horizon, heralding another Dawn of woe for the Men of the West, these Easterlings chant and shout ferociously; for the Sun is chief of their gods of the Sky, and they believe the gods favour their quest to lay low the twilight Westlands, and unify all the world under their Kakan, their mighty Chief of Chiefs. Ashgarkan has laid low all who opposed him, has forged out of a hundred warring tribes a mighty nation, has laid a vast swath of the East at his feet, has received placatory tribute from the Grand Vizier of Umbar, and has even received a pledge of fealty from the Morgul Lord of Mordor. He need only conquer stubborn Gondor, the last remaining thorn in his side, and all the World shall lie under the yoke of the Balcoth! So the warriors tell themselves as they go about their tasks, eager for another day of siege and battle against their hated foes."

"Ashgarkan himself girds on his curved sword and strides out of his tent, where his war-chariot and honour-guard await him. His guardsmen ululate triumphantly as he steps proudly onto the chariot, ordering its driver to whip the six black horses yoked to it out onto the field, from where he can supervise the siege of the doomed Gondorians' encampment. All the warriors of the Balcoth bow their heads as he passes them, half-drunk with his own power and glory."

"At last Ashgarkan reaches the open fields below the Gondorian camp, and surveys with satisfaction the progress of his men. It is unnatural for them to fight on foot, though the trenches, traps, and wooden-stakes lodged in the ground have forced them to it; but by sheer numbers they are pressing the Gondor-men into a smaller and smaller corner. Each day that passes sees another trench filled in, another trap dismantled, another rampart of wooden stakes leveled. Another day, perhaps two, and they will reach the earthwork ramparts that form the final defense of the Gondorian infantry. Then they will surge over the walls, swords and spears in hand, and do their bloody work. Ashgarkan has ordered that not one Gondor-man is to be left alive. "

"The Gondorians themselves are determined, but grim and full of foreboding. Their General Erendras, encamped by a standard that bares the ancient banner of Gondor – the White Tree on its field of Sable – has done his best to maintain his solders' morale, but he knows that his position is hopeless now that the Balcoth have crossed the Anduin more swiftly than could have been imagined. He still holds out hope that Gelion's mission has not failed, that the Eotheod will arrive, but the siege has lasted for four days now and there is no sign of the Northmen. If they do not arrive in time, he has ordered his men to sell their lives dearly, and not to permit a single chariot of the Wainriders to cross the Limlight into the northern marches of Gondor as long as a single man of his own army still draws breath."

"Ashgarkan knows nothing of Erendras' hopes, and gloats at the thought of seeing a Gondorian general humbled at his feet before facing the inevitable torture and execution that awaits all captives. He lusts for the day when Minas Tirith has been sacked by the Balcoth, and the Steward Cirion himself lies in chains at his feet, as so many other petty-kings and chieftains have before him. But for now Ashgrakan is content to observe the siege, and await the ruin of Gondor's Army of the North."

"So enamoured is the great Kakan of his own thoughts that he pays little heed to the mist which is creeping over the Field of Celebrant, growing stronger and thicker even as the Sun climbs higher in the eastern sky. The mist is but a brief hindrance to the siege, which will doubtless dissipate before the noon-hour. He urges his Men onward, commanding them to fill in every trench and destroy every obstacle."

"The mist does begin to dissipate, though with preternatural speed that leaves Ashgarkan puzzled. Imagine his shock when, no sooner than the light of the rising Sun once again shines clearly over the plains, two smooth, ascending notes from a horn ring out clearly over the Field of Celebrant!"

"As his warriors begin to shout warnings and raise the alarm, Ashgarkan orders his driver to wheel the chariot about, so that he can get a clear view of the lands to the north. When his sharp eyes look towards the horizion, his olive skin turns pale, and his jaw drops, leaving his mouth hanging open absurdly."

"Yes, the great Kakan is, for once, shocked and stupefied; along the northern horizon a force of enemy cavalry is forming up and preparing to charge! His keen sight soon reveals them by garb to be Northmen, the ancient enemies of the Easterlings, and his practiced eye correctly judges their force as full seven-thousand strong."

"Ashgarkan is both amazed and appalled by this sudden reversal of fortune. How can a force of enemy cavalry seven-thousand strong have evaded his scouts, and approached the very threshold of his encampment unseen and unheard by anyone? He suspects treachery by his own scouts and guards, against whom he vows a bloody revenge; the truth of the matter is never revealed to him. He is wise enough to realize instantly that his peril is greater than it appears, for although his army dwarfs that of the Northmen and the Gondorians combined, in his overconfidence he has made only a cursory effort to secure the perimeter of his own encampment; many of his men are on foot where they are vulnerable, and many of his deadly war-chariots lie empty and idle on the fields."

"'We are attacked!' cries the great Kakan in his deep, gravelly voice, to the shock of his warriors nearby. 'Lift the siege at once, you dogs!' he bellows. 'Set a guard about the Gondor-men's camp, and turn and face the Northmen! Fly like the wind to your chariots!' His men, who know that to so much as hesitate for a moment to obey their great Kakan means certain death, drop their siege implements and race at once to the north, where the greater part of their chariots lie unused and unguarded. Yet the numbers of the Balcoth are vast, and full ten-thousand of them remain behind to keep the Gondorians imprisoned within the walls of their own encampment and field-works. Ashgarkan himself drives forward in his chariot with all speed, determined to take command of the horde of charioteers already mounted and waiting in the field, and lead them against these audacious horsemen from the North."

"Meanwhile, the Eotheod are forming up in their order of battle, as Eorl rides up and down the field on Felarof, issuing orders to his commanders. As Eorl reached the vanguard of the cavalry, who were forming up in neat rows under the watchful eyes of their commanders, he turned and faced his men, ordering the commanders to relay his words down the line:"

"'Men of the Eotheod!' he cries, shaking his long iron-tipped spear. 'Do not fear the enemy! We know their kind of old. They find courage only in numbers; on their own they are nothing. When things seem well for these Easterlings, they are vain and boastful; when things go ill, they show their true colours as cowards! The enemy is numerous, but they are utterly unprepared for us. See how poorly guarded is their camp, and how many of their chariots lie empty and useless in the field. They have grown soft and overconfident. Now is the time to avenge our ancestors! Behind us like only impoverished farms and a slow, creeping death; before us lie new lands and immortal glory! To war!'"

"'To war!' shout the warriors of the Eotheod. The Horn blows again, and with a flourish of his sword Eorl the Young leads their charge against the Wainriders, the Field of Celebrant thundering under their massed hooves."

"The Balcoth scurry to and fro frantically, rousing themselves from their tents and campfires in a desperate attempt to mount their chariots and form up a full line for a massed assault against the Northmen. Yet full ten-thousand of them are already deployed in the field, five-thousand chariots strong, each with a horse-driver and a warrior armed with spear or bow and arrow. Dashing up to these warriors, Ashgarkan takes command of them personally, swiftly forming their ranks into a long, straight line, although one that is only one rank deep - far short of its usual depth."

"The great Kakan, a man of action rather than words, rarely feels the need to give rousing speeches to his warriors. They know without being told that the choices facing them are simple; total victory, honourable death in battle, or torture and execution as punishment for failure. But on this day he chooses to favour them with a few well-chosen words. Brandishing his wicked-looking compound bow, Ashgarkan cries 'Warriors of the East; the Gods of the Sky favour us! See how the Sun rises red and thirsty for the blood of the Northmen! Mow them down beneath your wheels and crush them forever!'"

"Their chilling ululations echoing across the field, the line of Balcoth charges toward the Eotheod, their heavy bronze chariots shaking the field as if the Earth itself were being torn asunder, the sharp blades affixed to each axle spinning with the wheels and buzzing like a horde of angry wasps. Ashgarkan, as is his way, follows them from behind while surrounded by the chariots of his elite bodyguard, to direct the actions of his army in battle and slay any whose cowardice led them to choose to flee rather than to fight."

"Both armies soar across the field like lightning, and within less than a minute they are on each other. Instantly the Balcoth cut through the line of the Northmen like a whirlwind, and it seems as if the battle will be decided almost at once. The terrible blades affixed to the axes of the Balcoth's bronze chariots cut down the horses and riders of almost a thousand warriors of the Eotheod amid fountains of blood, and the severed, broken bodies of Men and horses are dashed about like children's toys, their death-cries hideous to hear and their ruined forms pitiable to see. Screaming exultantly, the Balcoth go to work with spears and swords, slaying the handful of survivors before turning their attention to the rear ranks of the Eotheod, who had pulled back on their reins in horror as they saw the scene of carnage unfold before them."

"Eorl, without time to think clearly, realizes that the moment of truth is upon him. Though he had been in the foremost rank of his vanguard, Felarof had leapt easily above the onrushing chariots of the Wainriders, carrying him to a place of fleeting safety behind their ranks. Some of the most accomplished riders in his vanguard had also leapt over the deadly chariot wheel-blades on their mortal steeds, and they soon form up behind their Chief, shaken but undaunted."

"Eorl's keen eyes find behind a wall of Wainriders to the south a tall wooden pole, from which is affixed leathern banner bearing the design of an angry scarlet Sun on a field of pale blue. Attached to the pole beneath the banner are the feathers of various birds of prey, and hung on leathern straps from it are what look like the skulls of hapless Men.

"A sudden intuition seizes upon Eorl, and turning to the dozen or so riders behind him he cries, 'See! Ashgarkan himself directs the battle safely from behinds his lines, the coward! Form up and charge!' And without further words he spurs Felarof forward, rushing like the wind straight toward the great and terrible Kakan and his bodyguard of elite warriors! Eorl's vanguard follow in his waking, desperately trying to keep up with their young chieftain, but their mortal steeds are soon far outpaced by Felarof."

"Ashgarkan, who had snarled with savage satisfaction as his Balcoth had mowed down the foremost ranks of the Northmen's cavalry, now stares in mixed wonder and bemusement at the lone towheaded warrior on his shining steed who races towards him, moving almost faster than the eye can see. The Kakan barks a command at his bodyguard, who fire a volley of deadly arrows at this brave but foolhardy Northman to cut him down in mid-flight."

"Felarof neighs fiercely, and with incredibly agility dashes sharply to the right and again to the left, evading the cloud of arrows entirely! Now Ashgarkan can clearly see the warrior mounted on the creature; a young man, barely more than a stripling, who grasps in his right arm a long spear with a deadly tip of iron; a metal greatly feared by the Easterlings, for they know its strength but have never mastered the art of forging it. For the first time in many long years, the icy hand of fear lays its chill grip on Ashgarkan's spine, as he realizes that the mad Northman is dashing straight towards him as if his bodyguards were of no consequence!"

"'Fools!' shouts Ashgarkan hoarsely. 'Cut him down with your chariots! Charge!'"

"Whipping their steeds mercilessly, the drivers of the chariots obey their great chieftain without hesitation, seeking to cut down their foe with the blades affixed to their wheels even as the warriors beside them prepare another volley of arrows at him."

"Yet even as their volley is unleashed, Felarof is already in the air. With an incredible leap matching that with which he had soared over the gates of Framsburg nine years before, Felarof soars right over the heads of the bodyguard, landing on the ground but a score of paces before the chariot of Ashgarkan himself!"

"At that moment, a strange thing happens. Even as Ashgarkan knocks an arrow to his bow, he feels his blood run cold with fear. The Kakan knows the Northman can cast a lethal spear-throw before he himself can aim and loose his arrow. With no bodyguards about, with his driver suddenly frozen with panic and standing dumbly by his side, the great Kakan of the Balcoth realizes that nothing at all shields him from this terrible Northman on his bewitched steed, whose upraised spear and ice-cold eyes foretell an inexorable doom."

"At that moment finding himself for all intents and purposes alone, the King of Kings, the Conqueror of the World, before whom countless nations of the East have fallen under the yoke, feels his courage desert him in the face of certain death. Nothing is left in Ashgarkan but the desperate yearning to save his own skin, and live to fight another day."

"Uttering a strangled cry, Ashgarkan rashly drops his bow and arrow, pushes his stupefied driver clear out of the chariot, took up the reins, and whips his frantic horses into wheeling about as fast as they can. Meanwhile, his bodyguard, their attack on Eorl thwarted by Felarof's incredible speed an agility, turned about to witness a shocking and terrible sight; their dreaded overlord, mighty Ashgarkan himself, is on the run! The Kakan is driving his own chariot for dear life away from the lone Northman, who pursues him inexorably from but a few paces behind, his long spear poised for the fatal cast."

"'The Kakan is a coward!' cried one of the bodyguards. 'He would slay us out of hand for even hinting at retreat, but see now how he flees the battlefield himself!' gasps another."

"Even as the bodyguards, both drivers and warriors, stand still in their chariots, their shame at their Kakan's cowardice rivaling their disbelief at the scene, Ashgarkan feels the terrible Northman gaining on him from behind. Finding his courage too late, he releases his hold on the reins and wheeled about in his chariot, drawing his scimitar for a desperate combat against his foe. But even as he does so, Eorl's spear is already in the air, and in the blink of an eye in cleaves straight through the Kakan's armour of bronze plate, lodging itself deep in his heart in a shower of red blood."

"As the scimitar falls from his hands and his spasming body flies out of the chariot, which rumbles off blindly as its panicked horses flee the scene, Eorl, who has rapidly drawn his longsword, cuts off Ashgarkan's head with a single stroke. Felarof stops and wheeled around on his hooves, and Eorl swings low to the ground while still keeping his hold on his mount, seizing the late Kakan's severed head by its single lock of long, greasy hair."

"Eorl charges at the bodyguards, screaming with the battle-fury of the Northmen, while they stare at him in shock and horror. So distracted are they that the sudden assault of Eorl's own vanguard, who had followed in his wake, strikes them like a thunderbolt. Most of them perish at once under the spears and arrows of the Northmen; those few who do not dash off in all directions, some towards their encampment, some towards the line attacking the Eotheod, some towards the makeshift infantry that pinned the Gondorians inside their fortifications, and some wherever they might to save their own skins."

"'This is the head of Ashgarkan, son of dogs and vipers!' shouts Eorl, as his amazed vanguard cries out joyously. 'Follow me!' command Eorl, 'We shall carry it back to the battle, and show it to our lads! Let the enemy see it and despair!' With a shout of victory, they wheel about and follow their young chieftain, who pursues the fleeing bodyguards towards the rear of the Wainriders' line of chariots."

"As some of the bodyguards dash across the battlefield, crying of their late Kakan's cowardly death at the hands of a single Northman, those Balcoth fighting against the Eotheod hear their dispiriting cries. 'The Kakan is slain by a Northman stripling!' 'The Kakan was a coward, punished by the gods!' 'The Sky-gods have forsaken us!'

"The warriors, busily engaged in pitched battle with the Eotheod, or else waiting to take their place in combat, do not pause to heed these cries. But the chariot-drivers, many of whom could not force their way past the line of broken bodies created by their first charge, react with scorn and disbelief. Yet they cannot help but wonder why their great Kakan's bodyguard would doom themselves to certain torture and execution by trying to demoralize them in the heat of battle. Had they lost their minds?"

"Then they see a small group of Northmen approach from behind their lines, shouting exultantly. Even as some of the drivers begin to wheel their chariots around to mow down these impudent fools, the more far-sighted amongst them begin to see what their leader holds from his hand…the dripping, severed head of Ashgarkan himself!"

"The drivers cannot not deny the evidence of their own senses. No longer scorning the bodyguards, they began to join them in wailing in shock and fear. Some of the younger and less disciplined of them break formation and began to ride off in all directions, carrying their astonished warriors with them, unsure whether to spread to the terrible news to others of their tribe, or to flee for their lives now that the Sky Gods have surely turned against their people. This trickle soon became a flood, as the panic of the fleeing drivers and bodyguards begins to infect those Balcoth, warriors and drivers alike, who were still engaged in battle with the Eotheod. Without even knowing the reason for the flight of their comrades, they know no driver or warrior of the Balcoth would dare flee from battle and face the terrible wrath of the great Kakan unless some unspeakable calamity has occurred, one which would put those who flee beyond the reach of punishment by their superiors."

"The Eotheod, seeing this sudden weakness and confusion in their foes, redouble their efforts, the war-fury of all Northmen rising in them as they seek to inflict a terrible revenge for the deaths of their fallen kinsmen under the wheels of the Wainriders' chariots. They are soon joined by Eorl himself and his bodyguard, who to their amazement and joy wave the severed head of the enemy chieftain Ashgarkan about as if it were a talisman. Surging with confidence, they hurl themselves against the Wainriders, more and more of whom are fleeing the battlefield, in chariots or on foot, as the momentum of desertion from their ranks proves unstoppable by their frantic commanders. The tables were turned on the Balcoth, for those who did not flee the battle can no longer coordinate their assult against the Eotheod in another massed charge; one by one, their chariots are surrounded and their drivers and warriors cut down by the spears and arrows of the Northmen."

"Meanwhile, in the broad encampment of the Balcoth, the torrent of charioteers fleeing the battle against the Northmen begins to panic those drivers and warriors who have been struggling to hitch their horses to their chariots and join their comrades in battle. Their panic is stirred into the flames of pandemonium as word begins to spread amongst their ranks that their great and fearsome Kakan, the Conqueror of the World was no more; that he had even, as his shocked bodyguards claim, died a coward's death."

"Instantly, shorn of the guiding will of Ashgarkan, their lust for battle quenched by fear that the Sky-gods have turned against them, they look only to their own welfare, seeking to save their own skins rather than fight and die for a cause which their gods surely scorn and disavow – for why else would they allow the Kakan to die, and an unmanly death at that? They still possess a vast numerical advantage, yet their numbers avail them nothing; without Ashgarkan, and in the grip of superstitious fear, they are like a colony of ants whose queen has been slain. They dash about frantically, to no purpose and with no common aim."

"In the Gondorian encampment General Erendras, surveying the scene from his hilltop encampment, had thanked the Valar for the timely arrival of the Northmen, though he fears they are too few in number. But the sudden wailing from the Balcoth's camps and the chaotic flight of so many of their warriors on chariot, horseback, and even on foot amazes him. At first his wariness leads him to suspect a trap, but his practiced eye soon leads him to realize that the Rhunlings could not afford to design a trap that leaves so many holes in their defences; nor was their any need for such a stratagem on their part, given their overwhelming numbers. As he contemplates how to respond, he notices that riders fleeing from the Rhunlings' encampment have reached the mass of their warriors on foot who had been left to keep the Gondorians pinnined within their fortifications while the bulk of the Rhunlings' forces lifted the siege to combat the Northmen. The same panic that infects the Rhunlings further afield is now manifested amongst these warriors on foot, some of whom throw down their shields and began to flee the scene, while other argue bitterly or dash about purposelessly, as if unsure of what they were about."

"Knowing an opportunity when he sees one, Erendras promptly issues orders to his men. Within minutes, a series of hidden doors and gates in the earthwork ramparts and wooden fortifications of the encampment are opened, and orderly columns of Gondorian infantry began to stream out of them, aiming directly at the wavering host of Rhunlings below. Swiftly forming into wedge formations, their black rectangular shields embossed with the White Tree design held up in a shield wall, their spears thrusting outward, the Gondorians charge the Rhunling warriors at the base of the hill. A volley of arrows from within the encampment first alerts the panicked, squabbling Rhunlings that they are under attack, and the sudden charge of the Gondorian infantry sends chaos through their ranks."

"Some Rhunlings choose to stand and fight no matter what grim rumours they have heard, while many others choose to cut and run. But without their Kakan, the rigid chain of command on which they all rely for orders and direction has broken down entirely; the commanders of the Rhunlings had been selected for their loyalty to Ashgarkan, and have no experience with and, it seems, little talent for taking the initiative by themselves. Rather than facing a united front of ten-thousand Rhunling warriors on foot, the Gondorians face a completely disorganized mob, many of whom are more interested in fleeing the scene than holding their ground."

The storyteller took another pull at this mug of ale, and said, "That ends the immediate narrative of the battle; the tale then resumes its form of a chronicle, and continues as follows:"

"The results were as predictable as they were deadly. Gondor prided itself on having the finest professional infantry in the length and breadth of Middle Earth, and its boast was not in vain. With cold efficiency the Gondorian soldiers went to work, smashing into the quavering ranks of the Balcoth, butchering them with spear and sword until it seemed the very ground was drenched with the blood of Rhunlings. The terrible casualties suffered by these hapless Men, who had been led far from their homes in the East by the vain ambitions of their slain Chief of Chiefs, sapped what courage was left to the Rhunlings. Hoping for no mercy from the Gondor-men – for they themselves had never show mercy to anyone – they either fell on their own swords, or threw down their shields and ran as fast as they could towards the river Limlight, hoping to flee the ill-fated Field of Celebrant and find their way back to the Anduin and make passage to its eastern shore."

"Erednras pressed home his advantage, sweeping away the last vestiges of the force of Rhunlings who had surrounded his encampment, when sending details to begin to repair at once the damage that had been done to the outer defences by days of siege. He also ordered his forces of heavy cavalry to hunt down and slay the Rhunlings who retreated on foot, while his light cavalry were ordered scour the battlefield and return with news of how the battle was progressing between the Northmen and the Rhunlings to the north, and also of how many Rhunlings appeared to have abandoned their encampment of felt tents."

"Perhaps half an hour had elapsed before some of the light cavalry scouts returned, reporting that the Rhunlings were abandoning their own encampment, and that many of them were fleeing towards the Limlight, while others fled towards the Anduin. Erendras was more than pleased by the news, yet mystified as well. 'Why, in the names of all the Valar, did they lose their nerve?' he asked himself repeatedly."

"Perhaps another quarter of an hour elapsed before he received his answer. Several of his scouts returned with a party of a dozen or so riders. One of them was his own Herald Gelion, who looked rather the worse for wear with a fresh scimitar gash marring his cheek and forhead, but was never the less very much alive and in once piece. The rest were Northmen, though of these only one stood out."

"But such a one Erendras had never seen before! Though very young, barely more than a stripling, he had an air of command and confidence Erendras recognized as belonging to a natural leader, a man not afraid to take risks, and what was more charismatic enough to persuade his people to share in the dangers he had chosen for himself. He sat on a steed whose beauty and proud mein were so great that the good General, who had spent the better part of his life around horses in the field, could not help but gasp when he saw it. Yet most strangely of all, this young Northman bore in his right hand a grotesquerie; the severed head of a Rhunling, speckled with clotted blood, its glazed-over eyes frozen in a perpetual stare of shock and disbelief."

"Gelion spoke a few words in the uncouth tongue of the Northmen, and the young man on his magnificent steed nodded and then rode his horse at a canter toward the General, who stood on foot on the muddy, blood-soaked ground. Without preliminaries he flung the severed head in the mud at Erendras' feet, and then spoke in a crude dialect of the Common Tongue of Gondor:"

"'I am Eorl son of Leod, Chieftain of the Eotheod, known to my people as Eorl the Young,' said the Northman. 'There in the muck before you lies the head of Ashgarkan, he who has vexed Gondor exceedingly of late. Without their chieftain, these Easterling cowards are fleeing the scene, just as I prophesied they would. They have abandoned their camp, and many disgracefully fled the battle with my own cavalry, despite their superior numbers and the terrible losses we suffered in their first charge. My lads are hunting them down and putting them to the sword even as we speak. It sees your boys are doing the same, from what I saw on my ride here. Mark you; not one of these Easterling maggots should be left alive to crawl back to this people in the East. Let those who sought to enslave us perish unknown in a distant land far from their own kin, never to be heard from again."

"General Erendras remained silent for a moment as he pondered these harsh and bold words. If the boy spoke the truth, and this was indeed the head of Ashgarkan, _that _at least would explain the sudden panicked flight and hopeless disorganization of the Rhunlings, whose army had seemed more than competent but a day before. Indeed, there was _no_ other explanation that made sense. Cut off the head, as an old proverb from Lebennin had it, and the body will soon follow."

"Erendras then bowed gracefully, and assumed at once the mantle of a courtier of the Steward of Gondor speaking to a valued guest. 'A thousand welcomes and ten-thousand thanks, o Eorl son of Leod,' said Erendras, in the antique style in vogue at the court of the Steward Cirion. 'Though neither all the gems beneath the earth, nor all the stars of the sky could repay such courage as you and your people have shown this august day, yet Gondor in its sovereign majesty…'"

"'Enough talk!' exclaimed Eorl bluntly, in the tactless style for which the Northmen had long been infamous. 'There is only one reward that interests me for my labours and those of my kinsmen, and it is the one promised me by your Herald Gelion.'"

"Erendras, standing straight up once again, allowed his grey eyes to dart briefly towards Gelion. He noted the man's normally sun-bronzed face was ashen grey, and his left hand trembled as with a palsy. Was he feeling the effects of the sword stroke which had grazed his skull? Or was he fearful that he had promised more gold than his General was willing or able to pay these towheaded auxiliaries? Three chests of gold coins were stored securely in Erendras' tent, but he began to wonder if he might need a fourth."

"'In terms of the gold that shall be paid to you as a token of Gondor's friendship and esteem, of its gratitude for your loyal services….' he began, only to be interrupted by the young chieftain."

"'Gold does not interest me!' cried Eorl, his blue eyes shining fiercely. 'I have it aplenty. I have upheld my part of the bargain, Son of Gondor, and now you must uphold yours – or that made by your herald on your behalf, and to which I hold you. It is in land that my people are poor, and it is in land that we shall be paid. Tell me, where is the land allotted to my people? I would see it with my own eyes, before calling our wives and children to make the long journey south from Framsburg to their new homes.'"

"'Land?' asked Erendras faintly, his own skin turning as pale as Gelion's." 

"'Yes, land!' replied Eorl swiftly. 'Your Herald promised us a generous allotment of land in Gondor's territories, to be ceded to my people forever. It was for this prize alone that we fought and won this battle for you,' he continued, not entirely ingenuously."

"'You promised _what_?' hissed Erendras, his composure completely forgotten for the moment. He glowered darkly at Gelion, who seemed to shrink back in his saddle.

"'Forgive me, sir,' replied Gelion, holding up both hands. 'But you instructed me to take all necessary measures to enlist the Northmen to our aid. I have done so, and they have carried the day for us, as you have seen.'"

"'I see that we have purchased the freedom of Gondor at the price of surrendering who knows how much of its soil to these towheaded barbarians!' shouted Erendras, no longer bothering to disguise his hot-blooded fury. 'Has our proud nation sunk so low in these latter days? Fool! How can you have presumed the authority to make such a bargain? The Steward Cirion will have both your head and mine on the chopping block!'"

"'Mind your words, Gondor-man!' interjected Eorl coolly. "Do not call my people _barbarians_. You would do well to remember it is our valour alone that saved your skins this day." He had backed away from the General, and his bodyguard were now fingering the hilts of their swords. Erendras' own Gondorian infantry men had swiftly formed a screen of shields and spears around the Northmen, making a sudden fight an all-too-real possibility."

"'Do not speak to me thus, Eorl son of Leod!' shot back Erendras. 'I am a General of the Army of Gondor, a loyal servant of the Steward Cirion. The blood of the Sea-Kings flows in my veins, and for all that I look but fifty I have walked this earth for eighty-six years. Respect is due - beginning with your addressing me by my proper title.'"

"'Then listen well, _General_," replied Eorl. "I had hoped for peace and friendship between our peoples when the Wainriders were defeated. I do not want to see one battle piled on top of another, with many of the Easterlings not yet slain, and still able to cause mischief. But I will not tell my Men they have fought in vain, for many of them have died this day, even my own standard-bearer Guntram. By the gods of my people, I shall exact your Herald's promise from Gondor to the last letter, and by force of arms if I must. You shall not evade the price of land that is due to us."

"Erendras looked ready to pull the youthful Eorl off his horse and strike him down, but one of his adjutants took hold of his arm. "With respect, sir," said the adjutant, "no matter the depths of Gelion's folly, this is not a matter that can be settled by the military authority. Gelion's promise was on behalf of Gondor itself, and on that account only the Steward Cirion personally can settle this matter. Might I propose that when the last remants of the Easterlings have been dispatched, this Northman, this Eorl son of Leod, accompany us to Minas Tirith? Let him present his case before the Steward, and let the Steward give his judgment in the name of the King Who Shall Return."

"Erendras, still breathing heavily, remained silent for a few moments. Then he nodded gruffly. 'By the Valar, Captain Tilion, you have spoken well. I cannot gainsay your logic. So be it.' Facing Eorl again, he continued, 'Will you agree, Eorl son of Leod? When the enemy is utterly vanquished and the Field of Celebrant secured, will you accompany us to Minas Tirith and accept the judgment of the Steward?'"

"If I must travel to the Mundburg to obtain for my people the lands owing to them,' replied Eorl, using the name given by the Northmen to the famed White City of Gondor, 'so be it. But this judgment of your Steward's had better be nothing more than a confirmation of Gelion's promise. If I am swindled by the fancy words for which you Gondor-men are famous, then by the gods I will not forgive or forget it!"

"'We shall see,' replied Erendras curtly "Return here at Noon tomorrow, for our march southward shall begin at that time.' 'Sergeant!' he then barked at a nearby infantryman. 'Place the Herald Gelion under arrest. Strip him of his weapons and confine him to his quarters. Give him medical attention, but keep him under guard at all times. He shall accompany me to Minas Tirith to face the Steward's judgment of his words and deeds. You men over there,' he continued, gesturing to the screen of infantry around Eorl and his bodyguard, 'stand aside and let the Northmen return to their own ranks.'"

"The Gondorian soldiers moved swiftly, and all was as Erendras had ordered. Gelion was taken into custody, and Eorl and his men returned to their own army, which under the direction of its commanders had split into several smaller groups, and was mercilessly harrying any surviving Wainriders that they could find. They were soon assisted by parties of Gondorian cavalry and infantry, who also torched the Wainriders' tents, smashed the wheels of their chariots, and unleashed their horses to roam freely on the grassy plains of the Field of Celebrant. "

"What was left of the battle soon wore down to a murmur, and Eorl delegated the mopping-up tasks to his commanders, while retreating to the privacy of the tent that had been prepared for him. He felt sorry for Gelion, for whom he had taken a liking on their ride south together, but for the most part he was consumed by worries over his new troubles. He had promised his people land, and he knew that his own rule as Chief of the Eotheod depended on fulfillment of that promise. Over a thousand Men of the Eotheod, sons, brothers and husbands, had been slain by the Wainriders because Eorl had sworn that new lands in the South for all the Eotheod would be the reward for the bravery of its warriors. If he failed them in that promise, then not only would shame and dishonour be heaped upon him, but his own line, that of Fram the Worm-slayer, might very well be brought to a swift and ignoble end by the vengeful relatives of the fallen."

"Pondering this, Eorl feared all the more the traps that might me laid for him at the Mundburg. There was not an enemy in the world whom he feared on the field of battle, as the events of the day had shown; but an elder in the council chambers was a foe to be reckoned with by a young man unversed in the arts of word-craft. All the moreso when that foe was a Gondorian, for the skill of that ancient people at twisting words and finding cryptic meanings in clear speech was legendary amongst the plain-spoken Northmen. Fearing what the morrow might bring, Eorl slept fitfully that night, feeling little of the thrill of victory enjoyed by his victorious warriors.'"

The storyteller paused briefly, taking a long draught from his mug of ale. Wiping his bearded mouth on his grey sleeve, he then continued:

"So the tale enters upon its last stage, though perhaps the last part is the most important.

The next morning Eorl awoke early, and summoned his bodyguard to him, ordering them to be ready to depart for the Gondorian encampment at a moments' notice. He received reports from his commanders, who confirmed that those of the Wainriders who had fled the battle had either drowned in the marshes of the Limlight, or drowned when crossing that river or attempting to swim the broad Anduin; or else they had been hunted down and slain either on the Field of Celebrant itself, or the grassy plains south of the Limlight. A few might have slipped through the net, but even so not one living Wainrider could be found anywhere west of Anduin."

"Eorl grunted in satisfaction, and then set about the funeral arrangements for the fallen. Tradition dictated they should be burned at nightfall in the presence of their chieftain, but Eorl did not have the time to wait; he ordered the pyres to be constructed at once. It was a labour of some hours, but by Noon the pyres had been lit, and the souls of the fallen commended to their ancestors. They had not been fully extinguished when he departed with his bodyguard, leaving word to his commanders that the Eotheod were to camp on the Field of Celebrant, sustaining themselves on their rations and the bounty of the countryside roundabout, while he traveled to the Mundburg to receive formally the promised grant of land from the Steward of Gondor - a bluff Eorl prayed fervently would not be exposed as false. He soon arrived at the Gondorian encampment, and found that it had already been disassembled and was ready to march."

"He was led to General Erendras, who nodded curtly had him, but offered no formal words of greeting. The General barked his orders, and then Gondor's Army of the North began its long march back to Minas Tirith, awaiting the laurels of victory and the thanks of a greatful people. Only Erendras and Gelion felt they had little to celebrate, and on that account they seemed even more taciturn than Eorl."

"'The army crossed the narrow but treacherous shallows of the Limlight, and thus passed over the frontiers of Gondor and into its northernmost province of Calenardhon. They came across several parties of Eotheod, returning from their slaughter of the fleeing Wainriders. Erendras had glowered at them with suspicion, and Eorl felt it prudent to order his men to quit Gondor's territory and join their comrades at the Field of Celebrant. They did so eagerly, but Eorl noted to his displeasure that Erendras suddenly ordered full five-hundred of his light infantry and half as many cavalry to separate from the army and maintain a watch on the frontier until they received further orders. Doing their best to hide their disappointment at their delayed homecoming, they made north for the Limlight, believing that their purpose was to snare any remaining stragglers from the Rhunlings. Eorl knew very well that their real purpose was surely to keep a watch for any further incursions by the Eotheod on Gondorian soil, which they would be bound to report; but he wisely held his tongue for the time being."

"So the army marched south for many days, as the weather grew from warm to hot and the Sun from bright to fierce. Eorl and his lads were sweating uncomfortably in the late spring heat, but even so they looked with admiring eyes on the broad, rolling lands about, whose bright green grasses bespoke the fertility of the soil. Felarof neighed and whinnied joyously many times as they crossed Calenardhon, and each night when the army stopped to make camp he would gallop about the meadows, and feed eagerly on the lush, sweet grass. Yet there were no houses, nor cultivated fields, nor any sign of habitation by Men. It seemed there was indeed land and to spare - good land - to be had for the taking in Gondor. It was simply a question of Eorl claiming his due."

"At length, the army crossed the river Entwash, and the scenery changed abruptly. The blue haze that had long smudged the southern horizon swiftly reared up into huge, snow-capped mountains – the Ered Nimrais or White Mountains of Gondor, half again as tall as the Misty Mountains with which Eorl was familiar. They soon came upon a broad, stone-flagged road, which they followed to the East for many miles."

"The road then turned South, and the army continued along its swift way. It was early summer now, and the climate and scenery changed yet again. It was blazing hot; a fierce, humid heat such as Eorl could never have imagined possible, and in which he never could have felt comfortable. The land seemed parched, and he noted there were many strange trees and plants the likes of which he had never seen or heard before. A Gondorian officer tried to explain to him the great value of the olive tree, and the many uses to which it was put by the Gondor-men, but Eorl paid him little heed. His chief thought was that any land south of the White Mountains would surely be too hot, too dry, and too alien to be of any use to a northerly people like the Eotheod. When he met this Steward Cirion, he would be sure to focus his claims for land on the green province of Calenardhon."

"At length, one sunny day at the height of noon, the army began to mount a crest in the road, beyond which lay a spectacular view. Eorl could see the broad river Anduin flowing to his left, growing browner and lazier as it neared the encircling seas that lay not far beyond the Southern horizion. An intricate series of trenches and scattered boulders of stone scarred a vast swath of land on both sides of the Anduin, though Eorl could not imagine its purpose. To the East of Anduin, the land rose up abruptly through dark pine-forests into black, barren, jagged mountains that seemed to scrape the the sky like giant claws. Eorl shuddered at the sight, without fully knowing why, and turned his attention to the West instead."

"There, climbing up the lower slopes of a vast, snow-crowned mountain peak stood a sight that caused Eorl to exclaim aloud in shock, and his bodyguard to cry out to their gods. The Mundburg, the Minas Tirith of the Gondor-men, was at last before his view!"

"Eorl simply could not believe his eyes. He had known that the Mundburg was, famously, built of stone - which in itself was strange to him, for that was a building material alien to the Northmen. Yet he had assumed that the reports of its gigantic size were nothing more than legends. Truly, every Man measures things by the standards of what he knows, and it was inconceivable to Eorl that Minas Tirith could be much larger than his own wood-beamed and turf-roofed town of Framsburg."

"Yet here was Minas Tirith in all its glory; its smooth stone walls, each hundreds of feet high, rising tier-upon-tier sevenfold up the slopes of the mountain, the spaces within each tier crowded with stone mansions the least of which put his Great Hall at Framsburg to shame. More than a mile its lowest tier sprawled out into the plain, and half a mile and more it climbed up the mountain slopes. Its highest tier was crowned with a mighty- pillared citadel of creamy white stone, and by a thin, snow white tower, soaring perhaps some three-hundred feet above the courtyard of the highest tier. That tower surveyed the lands about, distant and remote from the world far below."

"'Surely the gods themselves must have built this place!' exclaimed Eorl, who despite himself could not suppress his wonder and admiration – which perhaps were not untinted with a twinge of envy. 'To build such walls, to build a thing so vast…it is beyond the powers of mortal Men!'"

"There was a time,' observed General Erendras – who had remained close to Eorl throughout the entire journey, even though he spoke to him very little – 'when the Men who built this city were so esteemed that the High Elves of the West themselves accounted them as wise as the Valar. But in the end they proved but Men, subject to time, folly, and decay like all the rest.' He searched Eorl's face, as if for some sign of knowledge of these matters, but finding none he frowned dourly and spurred on his mount to the last stage of the journey, Eorl following in his wake."

"Thus it was on a late afternoon in summer that Eorl the Young passed for the first time through the steel outer gates of Minas Tirith, past the statue of King Anarion the Fair which has stood in the public square of the lowest tier since time immemorial, and found himself in a true city of Men."

"The army began to disperse into companies that returned to their barracks or, for the married men, to their homes. But Erendras, accompanied by Eorl and his bodyguards, and with Gelion in tow under escort as a prisoner, proceed directly along the main road that zig-zagged up the mountainside towards the citadel. Through the first level they rode, and then the climbed up the second, and the third. Felarof seemed uneasy amongst the press of the crowd in the narrow city streets, many of whom stared and pointed both at the magnificent horse and its exotic rider, but Eorl whispered words of comfort to the steed and he remained calm. Up and up they climbed, the air becoming noticeably cooler in the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth levels."

"Finally, as they reached the crest of the sixth level, the Gondorians dismounted, and motioned for Eorl and his men to do the same. 'Horses are forbidden in the Fountain Court or anywhere about the Citadel on the seventh level,' explained Erendras briefly. Eorl looked on with some reluctance as Felarof, who appeared dangerously skittish, still followed the other horses that were led away by the stablehands, from whom Eorl exacted a promise that on no account were they to so much as to touch his steed. Thinking this some custom of the Northmen they humoured him, unaware it seemed of the peril to their lives if they roused the magnificent steed before them to deploy his lethally quick hooves. Eorl would have preferred not to have been parted from Felarof at all, but reasoned he could not afford to offend a Gondorian law when about to enter into negotiations of grave importance with the Steward of the realm.'"

"Eorl and his men followed Erendras, the prisoner Gelion, and several Gondorian guardsmen through a series of dark, narrow tunnels burrowed into the living rock of the mountainside, and climbed a flight of stone steps from which they emerged once again into the bright daylight. They had now reached the seventh level of the city, and Eorl took the opportunity to examine it up close. It was quite different in character from the lower levels, for they were given over to the common people of Gondor, but the seventh level was reserved only for the Steward, his servants, retinue and guards, and his most valued guests. Despite the bright Sun a notably cool breeze flowed down perpetually from the massive snow-covered mountain to the West, which upon inquiry a guard told him was named Mindoluin."

"They followed a gravel-surfaced trail to a grassy court, in the centre of which was a pool and a fountain, and the dead, withered husk of an exotic-looking tree. Four guards garbed in archaic armour and tunics and wildly impractical silver helmets decked with the wings of seabirds stood at attention about the tree, holding their spears at the ready. Eorl guessed that the tree surely was connected to the image of the White Tree sported by every banner, tunic and shield in the Gondorian army, and perhaps had been the same one in life, though he could not imagine why it merited a constant guard. He declined to ask, though, for his attention was on more pressing matters."

"Passing the Fountain Court (as the court of the Tree was known), they found themselves at a flight of steps that led up to the marble-pillared and vaulted Citadel. Eorl whistled as he stared up at the building, which appared even vaster from up close than it had from afar, and also at the slender nearby tower, which to the south of the Citadel rose nearly three-hundred feet above the Fountain Court. This tower was of snow-white stone, which stood in contrast to the creamy-white masonry of the Citadel, and appeared even to Eorl's inexpert eye to be much more recent in construction. 'The Tower of Calimecthar, from which the Steward surveys the lands about the lower Anduin from afar,' grunted Erendras, who had noted Eorl's interest in the building. 'Come!' The bronze doors of the Citadel swung open - though no servants had appared to open them - and Eorl followed the Gondorians into the cool, dark recesses of the Throne Room.'"

"As they proceeded over the marble floor, Eorl took in the onyx pillars, the arched windows that let in narrow beams of sunlight, and the high, vaulted marble roof. He had never been in such a room before; somehow it struck his youthful sensibilities as alien and even oppressive, as if weighed down by the burden of too many long centuries. This feeling was reinforced by the countless statues set into recesses along the walls, each one, its face and robes carved in stone in astonishingly lifelike fashion, representing a long-dead King from the days when Kings had still ruled Gondor."

"At last, approaching the western end of the Throne Room, Eorl saw clearly amid the dim light the throne itself, a massive, heavy seat carved out of stone, and approached by a flight of steps. Above the throne was the image of winged crown carved in sliver, which hung suspended by a chain from the rafters. Yet the Throne itself was vacant, as it had been for nearly five-hundred years. At its base and to Eorl's right was a narrow, high-backed chair of polished black wood, and it was in this Steward's Chair that Cirion sat, and from which he ruled his sprawling realm."

"Cirion the Steward himself was a man of perhaps sixty years in appearance, though his face belied his age; the blood of the Sea Kings, the Numenoreans of old flowed strongly in his veins, and he was well over one-hundred years old. Yet his smooth-shaven face had but few lines, and his white hair seemed dignified rather than hoary. His grey eyes had dark pupils that seemed like deep pools of water, which concealed far more than they showed. He was dressed in simple robes of plain black cloth, though he did sport an elegant silver necklace to which was affixed an antique medallion bearing the engraved image of the White Tree."

"He sat silently, calm and tranquil, while the necessary rituals were performed. Erendras, Gelion, and the other Gondorians bowed deeply before him. Eorl noted that Gelion's face appeared wan and pale, but he seemed determined to maintain his composure before his lord. Eorl's bodyguard bowed likewise as a gesture of respect for this powerful outlander. Eorl himself did not wish to bow before a man whom he considered no more than his equal in authority, and so he merely nodded his head politely."

"Cirion's eyes now appeared cold, and he turned his attention to Eorl. Signalling to the others that they could stand at ease, he spoke directly to the young chieftain, saying, 'Eorl son of Leod, by what right do you not pay the Steward of Gondor the respect of bowing in his presence?'"

"'By right of brotherhood,' replied Eorl, 'the botherhood of one ruler of Men to another.'"

"'Know you not,' replied Cirion, 'that I rule this land in the name of the King of Gondor, and exercise the authority of his sovereign majesty? What Man can claim botherhood with the line of the Kings of Numenor of old?'"

"'No King has ruled this land in ages,' replied Eorl bluntly, drawing on what little he knew of Gondor and its history. 'You rule your land and I rule mine. And it is to discuss land that I am here; a promise was made to me by yon herald, Gelion, and I mean to exact it from you.'"

Cirion smiled thinly at this flaxen-haired boy's impudence, and then turned his attention to Gelion.

"'Prisoner Gelion,' said the Steward, 'is it true that you promised a concession of land by Gondor to Eorl and his people, in exchange for their aid in the battle against the Rhunlings?'"

"'It is, my lord,' admitted Gelion simply."

"Erendras, appearing puzzled, interjected. 'My lord,' he said, 'if I may be so bold, how did you know of this, when I sent no messengers ahead to inform you of it? I had wished to keep the matter secret from as many of our people as possible, and bring the matter to you attention myself, here and now.'"

"'The eyes of the White Tower see farther than most Men can imagine, General Erendras,' replied Cirion, with a cryptical smile. 'Ask not how I know this thing, and content yourself that I do.' Turning back to Gelion, the Steward asked sternly, 'By what authority did you do this thing, to grant any of Gondor's sovereign territory to outlanders in exchange for any price?'"

"'I had no authority to do so, my lord,' admitted Gelion, who refused now to look Eorl in the eye. 'I was instructed by General Erendras to say or do whatever was necessary to obtain the aid of the Northmen in battle, and I did so.'"

"Eorl waxed wroth, as he began to realize he had been used as a pawn. 'A thousand of my Men like dead on the Field of Celebrant for the sake of Gondor,' he said hotly, staring fiercely at Gelion with his bright blue eyes. 'Did they sacrifice their lives for a lie, you treacherous cur?'"

"'Peace, Eorl son of Leod!' said Cirion, turning his own stare towards the young chieftain, and strangely Eorl felt unable to reply. He kept his tongue in cheque, brooding over how he had been manipulated, while the Steward continued his interrogation:"

"'Prisioner Gelion,' said he, 'you have admitted to surrendering Gondorian territory to outlanders without first receiving the authority of the Steward, who alone may act in the name of the King Who Shall Return. This is surely treason, with which you are now formally charged. What have you to say in your defence, before I pass judgment and sentence upon you?'"

"His voice wavering only slightly, Gelion replied, 'My defence is necessity, my lord. Had I not promised what I did, the Northmen would not have fought for us; had they not fought for us, we would have lost the battle against the Rhunlings; had we lost the battle against the Rhunlings, those savages would even now be laying waste to Anorien, and besieging us here at Minas Tirith. On what account is it treason to do what was necessary to save this realm from disaster? Treason the charge may be, but I reject it; necessity is my defence.'"

"Cirion was silent for a time, as if pondering the matter deeply. Turning to Gelion, his face grim, he said, 'Well spoken, though it is said that facing the prospect of the headsman's axe can concentrate the mind powerfully. No matter; Prisoner Gelion, on the evidence before me I find you guilty of treason against the realm of Gondor.'"

"Gelion's face turned ashen pale, and he bowed his head in shame and fear. But then Cirion smiled shrewdly. 'Mark you," he said, "I had no choice in the verdict. The facts were clear, and the law is the law. But now to the matter of your sentence.'"

"'Gelion stared upward, the barest trace of hope in his eyes. 'Though the sentence for treason is death,' continued Cirion, 'it is in my power as Steward to apply the Royal Prerogative of Mercy. Since you did what you did out of the noblest of intentions – your desire to preserve the freedom and security of Gondor – and since it is thanks to you that the Northmen carried the day for us on the Field of Celebrant, I shall exercise that prerogative now. I hereby commute your sentence entirely. You are no longer a prisoner, and are free to go from hence at once.'"

"Cirion nodded to the guards, who swiftly removed the cuffs that had bound Gelion's hands together. Some of the colour returning to his face, Gelion replied, 'A thousand thanks for your mercifulness, my lord. But where I shall go and what I shall do, I know not. My career in the Army is finished, now that I am disgraced by conviction as a traitor.'"

"'As the supreme commander of Gondor's army,' replied the Steward, 'that is my affair. I hereby order that no mention of your conviction shall be included in your record.' Gelion seemed surprised, and the Steward smiled again. 'Moreover, in these dark times I have need of Men who are bold and daring, Men who are not afraid to risk all in order to do what must be done. I therefore promote you henceforth from Herald to the rank of Colonel, serving under General Erendras.'"

"Gelion appared astonished now, no less so than Erendras. 'General,' continued Cirion, 'take Colonel Gelion with you to the barracks. Exact the necessary oaths from him to formalize his new commission. Organize a regiment of volunteers to be placed under his command. Report back to me from time to time on his progress in bringing the regiment to fighting-trim shape under his leadership.'"

"'As you wish, my lord,' replied Erendras formally, though his astonishment was still evident on his face."

"'A hundred-thousand thanks, my lord!' exclaimed Gelion gratefully. 'I am in your debt. I hope only not to disappoint you.'"

"'See that you don't, Colonel,' replied Cirion, his manner once again cool and reserved. 'The Steward of Gondor rewards success and punishes failure with equal vigour.'"

"The Gondorians bowed deeply and marched back toward the exit from the Throne Room, leaving the Steward to turn his attention once again to Eorl and his men. Eorl had now found his tongue, and was quick to use it."

"'A happy ending for Gelion,' exclaimed Eorl bitterly, 'who has been rewarded for his slyness and false promises. But what of me and my people? I stand and before you a victim of fraud at the hands of your subordinates. I demand justice, and by the gods I shall exact it.'"

"Cirion now had a bemused smile on his face. 'The hot temper of the Northmen mixed with the bold impetuousness of youth,' said he. 'Your success on the field of battle is in part explained. Less skilled are you in the arts of counsel and speechcraft, where you have much to learn.'"

"'Do you mean to bandy words all day?' asked Eorl grimly. 'What say you? Shall you grant a just result to the Eotheod, or must we claim it ourselves?'"

"'Do not make idle threats, Eorl son of Leod,' replied Cirion, no longer smiling. He stood to his feet, and Eorl noted to his surprise that the old man was even taller than himself. 'Gondor benefitted from your aid on the Field of Celebrant, but our army is still larger and better trained and disciplined than yours. You would fare ill if you tried to take our lands by force, for our strength does not rest upon that of a single Man as did the Rhunlings'. Moreover, this time you would not have supernatural aid from the Lady of the Golden Wood to lead you to victory.'"

"Eorl's bodyguards began to whisper amongst themselves at this strange remark, and Eorl felt distinctly uncomfortable. He knew well the superstitiousness of his people, that notwithstanding their friendship with Radagast the Brown they exhibited a fierce hatred of anyone amongst their own kindred so much as suspected of witchcraft and sorcery."

"'Is that your reply to me, then?' asked Eorl, trying to maintain his composure. "

"'Indeed it is not,' said the Steward. 'I have many things to say to you, but only in private.' He snapped his fingers, and a coterie of brown-liveried servants appeared from the shadows of the alcove behind the throne. 'Take these men to the guest quarters," he said, gesturing to Eorl's bodyguard, "and see to it they are well-fed and cared for.' Turning again to Eorl, he said, 'Accompany me on a walk, Eorl son of Leon, and we shall discuss Gelion's promises to you.'"

"Sensing that all might not be lost, Eorl nodded to his men, who followed the servants towards their waiting hot baths and sumptuous meal. Cirion took Eorl by the arm, and led him down the long onyx-pillared corridor of the Throne Room, through the bronze doors (which again mysteriously opened without any human agency), and into the fading daylight of late-afternoon. They continued to walk, down the steps and past the Fountain Court, and down a long gravel path over a stone-flagged courtyard."

"At length, they reached the very pinnacle of the seventh level of Minas Tirith, and stood by a low stone wall. Immediately below the wall was a drop of hundreds of feet towards the sixth level, and a view thousands of feet down towards the first level, and many miles across towards the East."

"Releasing his hold on Eorl's arm, Cirion now pointed eastward, waving his own arm in a broad gesture."

"'Eorl son of Leod,' he said, 'tell me what you see.'"

"Puzzled, Eorl replied, 'This city, the river Anduin, its valley, and mountains on the horizon.'"

"Cirion narrowed his eyes. Still pointing eastward, he said, 'No, tell me what you see _yonder_.'"

"Eorl now focused his gaze on the black, jagged mountains that frowned over the Eastern horizon, looking more than ever like sharp claws, or the fangs of some beast of prey."

"'If you are pointing to those dark mountains,' he said, 'I see that their foothills are swathed in pine forests, but their sides and peaks are barren and lifeless. They have an ill-favoured look.'"

"'Indeed,' replied Cirion. 'Now, indulge me if you will. Stand here and look to the East for some minutes, and I will ask you my question again.'"

"Eorl did as he was asked, while the Sun began to sink in the western sky behind his back, behind the shoulder of Mount Mindoluin, and the mountains to the east were swiftly plunged into shadow. He stared only for a brief time after this, before pointing his own arm eastward."

"'Yonder vale, in those far mountains,' he said. 'It is…_glowing_, it seems. A queer corpse-light, like a willow-the-wisp one sees now and again in marshlands.'"

"'It is indeed a corpse-light' nodded Cirion grimly. 'Know you what that vale is called, and what horrors lie within? Know you indeed the name of those mountains, or the land beyond them?'"

"'I know little of Gondor and its lore,' shrugged Eorl."

"'Then listen, and prepare to add to youf store of wisdom,' replied Cirion. 'That vale is named Imlad Morgul, the Vale of Dark Sorcery in our tongue. Within lies Minas Morgul, the Tower of Dark Sorcery, ruled over for centuries by a grim and terrible lord whom Men whisper is undead.'"

"'We have heard grim rumours of this Morgul Lord, even in distant Framsburg" nodded Eorl. He began to feel his blood running cold as the superstitions of his people whispered in his ears at the news that the Morgul-lord was _undead_, but Cirion was not yet finished."

"'Those dark peaks,' continued the Steward, 'are called the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow. And beyond them, to the East, lies Mordor, the Black Land.'"

"Eorl's face was now pale with shock. '_That_ is Mordor?' he gasped. 'It lies on Gondor's very frontiers?'"

"'Of course!' exclaimed Cirion. 'Did you think otherwise?'"

"'I have only heard it described as in the 'East',' whispered Eorl. "And we know little of the lie of the lands south of the Limlight. Truth to tell it has been so long since we Eotheod have heard any news concerning the Black Land itself, I thought it almost half a legend.'"

"'The memory of mortal Men is short,' replied Cirion wryly, 'and what they forget they call a legend.'"

"Turning once again to Eorl, he continued, 'Are you aware the late Ashgarkan, whom you slew in an act as notable for its miraculousness as for bravery, styled himself the Conqueror of the World?'"

"'So Gelion said,'" nodded Eorl."

"'I have said the eyes of the White Tower see far,' continued Cirion. 'What if I told you the Morgul Lord had pleged his fealty to Ashgarkan?'"

"'That Ashgarkan in life was a powerful Man indeed, to inspire even an undead wight to fear him,' replied Eorl, feeling a sudden pang of regret that his enemy had proved a coward in the moment of truth; it lessened the glory of his own victory."

"'So thought Ashgarkan thought himself, I deem,' replied Cirion. 'Doubtless he exalted in the conceit that he was so powerful even the Morgul Lord must bend the knee to him. If so, it proves his ignorance of these matters was as profound as yours.'"

"His pride offended by this remark, and fearing the Steward meant merely to distract him, Eorl said, 'Come, what has any of this to do with the matter at hand? We are here to discuss the grant of land promised to my people.'"

"'It has everything to do with it,' replied Cirion solemnly. 'Now listen, and do not interrupt, so that you no longer number amongst the blind and deaf who wander about the world with no understanding of what they do, or the significance of what goes on about them.' He paused, and then continued."

"'If Ashgarkan thought that the Morgul Lord was his servant, then the so-called Conqueror of the World was as great a fool as he proved to be a coward at the end. For the Morgul Lord serves but one alone, a Black Master whose name I will not utter here, so close to his own land. You know him in your legends as the Dark Lord of old.'"

"'You mean…'whispered Eorl."

"'Name him not!' hissed Cirion. 'Now listen. There is no such thing in this world as coincidence, nor blind luck. The fates of Men and all other kindreds are bound up in forces and powers deeper and higher than themselves. I cannot see all; but I know that many things which have transpired over many long centuries are part of a great and terrible stratagem, a stratagem that has not yet been fully revealed.'"

"'A stratagem by whom, and to what end?' asked Eorl."

"'By the Dark Lord who dwells in Shadow,' whispered Cirion, 'or else his servant the Morgul Lord acting at his behest. It matters not which. Suffice to say, everything that has the effect of strengthening the East and South, and weakening the North and West, is part of this stratagem. All of it serves the designs of the Enemy. Ashgarkan was but a pawn, though he knew it not. Had he succeeded in conquering the Westlands, his usefulness would have been at an end, and his own death swift and sure. The Morgul Lord and his Black Master are the powers the lie behind all assaults on the lands West of Anduin, and they will stop at nothing until they have achieved their end; the utter subjugation of all of Middle Earth, unto the Breaking of the World.'"

The storyteller paused for a moment, his grey-bearded face suddenly looking haggard and grim. He stared at the faces of the crowd before him, all of which were now hushed and silent. Even the Dwarf appared grave and watchful, while old Goatleaf for once was at a loss for words. Even Butterbur was listening apprehensively, having entirely forgotten his concern with coppers and pitchers of ale. The storyteller nodded gravely, and then continued:

"'Learn now Gondor's role in this,' continued Cirion. 'All lands West of Anduin have their own troubles, some greater and some lesser. Your own people have many, though we have not been able to offer you aid and comfort till now. But you must understand why Gondor looks always to its own defenses.'"

"He gestured eastward again. 'Gondor is no ordinary realm. It is and has ever been the enemy of Mordor, the bedrock of the West, the first and last defense of the Westlands against invasion and total subjugation by the East. All our thoughts, all our efforts are directed against Mordor and the schemes of its Morgul Lord, and the Dark Enemy whom he serves. For five-hundred years, Eorl son of Leod, we have been perpetually at war.'"

"Cirion paused, searching Eorl's eyes. He then continued, 'For the sacrifice of your Men at the Field of Celebrant, I offer my sorrow; for your own bravery and mighty deeds, I have my thanks. But you must know that countless thousands of Gondorians have sacrificed their lives over the centuries so that your own people and others could live in freedom, even if not always at peace. Without the might of Gondor your people will cease to exist, unless as slaves of the Enemy.'"

"Eorl was silent for a time as he pondered these grim words and their implications. Being unlearned at statecraft, he still could not see the point of the Steward's words when it came to the matter at hand. He said, 'I will not gainsay your wisdom. But I must still ask you what these things have to do with Gelion's promise. Do you mean to grant us a concession of land, or not?"

"'I am happy to do so,' replied Cirion, to Eorl's surprise. 'I do not object to granting you virtually the entire province of Calenardhon if you wish, save only for the watchtower of Orthanc at Angrenost. Calenardhon, though its soil is rich and its climate is mild, has long been abandoned by our own people save for a handful of doughty settlers and our military patrols. I am even happy to grant you full sovereignty over those lands, recognizing you as the King of your own realm, rather than a mere Chieftain of your people who acts as a vassal of Gondor, dwelling on a lease of land from it.'"

"'Then why did you not say so at the outset?' asked Eorl, his sudden joy tempered by lingering suspicion of the wilyness and wordcraft of the Gondor-men."

"Because,' replied Cirion, 'I shall not grant these concessions to you on Gelion's terms. If you wish these boons for yourself and your people, you must satisfy my own terms instead.'"

"'And what terms are those?' asked Eorl grimly, expecting a trap to be sprung on him at any moment."

"'Gelion told you you could have a grant of lands, and even of sovereign authority over them, as the price for your aid on the Field of Celebrant,' said Cirion. 'But I deem that price too much given in exchange for too little. Gondor must have more from you before it will give you what you seek.'"

"'And what is it you wish of us?' replied Eorl warily."

"Cirion took hold of Eorl's arm, and spun him back toward the East."

"'To help defend Gondor against _that_,' exclaimed the Steward, gesturing toward the Black Land, "in _perpetuity_, not merely once. Gondor must have alliance with you, and you must swear a solemn oath, binding upon all your successors after you, that the King and the Realm of the Eotheod will answer Gondor's call whenever again we are threatened by invasion from the lands East of Anduin.'"

"'That is a high price for_ us_ to pay,' replied Eorl,'"and not that to which I had agreed.'"

"'But you shall agree notwithstanding,' replied Cirion. 'And not merely to obtain lands and title, but to secure the future of your people. Gondor is strong, but not as strong as it once was. The East waxes, and the West wanes. Gondor needs an ally, and I believe that it shall be you and your people. And you could do with a powerful ally of your own. With whom shall you align if not Gondor? And if Gondor falls to the Enemy, what hope shall there be for your people?'"

"Eorl pondered these words in silence, staring at the Mountains of Shadow. A sudden flicker in the eerie greenish corpse-glow from the Morgul Vale sent a chill down his spine, and he realized at once that there was only one decision both necessary and _right._"

"'I accept your terms, Steward,' nodded Eorl, uncouthly grasping Cirion's hands to seal the bargain – he felt it inapproptiate to include the full gesture of first spitting on them, as he had done with Gelion. 'Gondor shall forever grant its province of Calenardhon, save its tower at Angrenost, to my people under my own sovereign authority as King, and the sovereign authority of my line after me. In exchange, the Eotheod pledge to answer Gondor's summons to war, and fight in its defense whenever it is again invaded from the Eastlands.'"

"'So be it,'replied Cirion solemnly. "I call upon the Valar to witness our oaths, and Eru Illuvatar to seal them.'"

The storyteller paused, took another long draught from his mug of ale, and sighed. Then he continued:

"'And so we come to the final act of our tale. The Treaty of Minas Tirith was put in writing by Cirion's scribes, and signed by Cirion and Eorl within a week. Its terms were in essence as I have stated them. Eorl then returned to the Field of Celebrant with his bodyguard, to inform his warriors of the Treaty, and to lead them back to their ancient lands about Framsburg so that they might prepare their families for their great migration.'"

"The warriors were overjoyed to learn that they had been granted an entire province, indeed the largest and northernmost province of sprawling Gondor, the one which of all its provinces was most suited to their tastes in climate and vegetation. They quickly decamped the Field of Celebrant and followed the long path home, arriving at Framsburg and its surrounding lands towards the end of Summer."

"The word soon spread amongst the people, and all that autumn and winter the land was ablaze with activity, as people prepared to carry with them what they could to their new homes, and also abandon their old ones. Not everyone, it should be said, was keen on the move; some who were old, or attached to their land, or whose individual plots were relatively large and fertile, refused to leave their ancestral homelands in the Upper Vale of Anduin. Eorl did not begrudge them these sentiments, and indeed when the time came for the great migration the following Spring he released them from his authority, to dwell in their now near-empty homeland as best they could. There descendents still live in those parts today, about the shores of the Anduin near the Carrock, or along the western eves of Mirkwood, where they have mingled with kindred folk and are known as the Woodmen."

"But by far the majority of the Eotheod were more than pleased to leave their cramped and impoverished Northern homeland for broad, fertile lands under a Southern Sun. As soon as April was well under way, and the last of the snows had melted, Framsburg was put to the torch, so that its fortifications did not make it a haunt of brigands once it lay empty. Not a few tears were shed on account of this deed, but all knew that it was necessary. Once Framsburg had thus been returned to nature, the Eotheod turned their back on their homeland and set out; men, women, children, wagons full of goods, columns of cows and sheep, pigs and fowl, and most of all of horses. Warriors rode in their vanguard and at their tail, in a great column many miles long. At the head rode Eorl the Young, proud to be leading this people to a better life in a new land. And so greatful were they for his gifts to them that they began to call themselves Eorlingas after his own name, a name that those people still call themselves by to this very day."

"It was late spring when the long column of the Eorlingas crossed the River Limlight, and so into the former Gondorian province of Calenardhon; now their own land, which Eorl had chosen to name the Riddermark, in honour of the horses and horsemanship of his people, though in the Common Tonge of Gondor that name is rendered as Rohan."

"While the people set about claiming their own homesteads – a task accomplished smoothly and without conflict, for there was room and to spare – Eorl and his comrades and retainers, as well his his still-fair mother Sigrun, rode south and east to the place where the North-South road crossed the Mering Stream, which now formed part of Rohan's frontier with Gondor."

"Here, as had been arranged the previous year, they met on the western shore of the stream a party out of Minas Tirith. Steward Cirion and his retainers were there of course, and an honour guard of Gondorian infantry led by General Erendras, and by Colonel Gelion, with whom Eorl generously reconciled. Also present was a tall, thin Man with long white hair and beard, garbed in flowing robes of white, leaning on a long black staff, whom Eorl had never met before. His mein was dark and foreign, but he possessed tremendous dignity, and Eorl somehow sensed that great power lay hidden beneath his elderly form. Felarof himself shyed away from this strange Man, as if for once the great steed was afraid of a mere mortal.

"Cirion introduced the Man as Curunir, a friend of Gondor since time immemorial who had lately returned from a journey of many decades in the mysterious East and South. Cirion left them to their own devices for some minutes, and Curunir then introduced himself to Eorl as Saruman the White, a Wizard of renown. The name was not unfamiliar to Eorl's ears, for the White Wizard had long gone by the name of Saruman when he journeyed into the Northern lands, and tales of his exploits were whispered amongst the Northmen alongside those of Radagast the Brown, who was well known to them. Eorl felt uneasy in the presence of a Wizard of such tremendous age and power, but Saruman soon set his mind at ease."

"'Congratulations to you, Eorl son of Leod!' exclaimed the White Wizard, in a deep, mellow voice that was at once a balm to the listener. 'Fram's line has long been a brave one, and your own boldness has served your people well!'"

"'I am honoured by your words, Saruman,' replied Eorl."

"'The Northmen have always had a special place in my heart,' smiled Saruman. 'And you and I might soon prove to be neighbours. Long have I wandered far and wide, but I am old now and weary of traveling, and seek a place where I can dwell securely and focus on my work. In years past I have often spent my time in the Westlands at the tower of Orthanc at Angrenost, or Isengard as it is rendered into your tongue, and I am of half a mind to arrange its lease from Gondor for my own purposes. Rest assured, if you and I become neighbours, you will have my fond friendship. If you have any troubles, you need only call on me and I shall do all that is in my power to aid you.'"

"'The friendship of a Wizard is a valuable prize,' said Eorl, bowing graciously. 'Should you become our neighbour, I have no doubt that Isengard and Rohan shall remain fast friends and allies throughout the ages.'"

"'Have no doubt of that at all!' laughed Saruman, his dark eyes flashing keenly. 'But you and I can chat later, my friend. This is your day. Go and claim your just reward!'"

"Eorl thanked Saruman again, and then turned to the meadow behind him where the Gondorians awaited them. As the Rohirrim watched, and even Felarof observed keenly, Eorl sat on his knees before the Steward Cirion, who began the ceremony of coronation forthwith:"

"'Eorl son of Leod,' intoned the Steward, 'do you accept the charge of Kingship, its rights, burdens and obligations?'"

"'I do accept it,' replied Eorl solemnly."

"'Do you agree to bind your eldest male heirs to the Kingship, its rights, burdens and obligations in perpetuity?'"

"'I do so agree,' exclaimed Eorl."

"'Do you agree to abide by the Treaty of Minas Tirith, and bind your successors forever by its terms?'"

"'I do agree to so abide and to so bind,' said Eorl."

"'Will you swear oaths by all that is sacred to you to honour these agreements, and bind your sucessors to them by the power of your oaths?' asked the Steward."

"'I do so swear by the gods of the Eotheod,' replied Eorl, who felt himself suddenly moved to add, 'and also do I so swear by the Valarian gods and the god Eru Illvatar, venerated by the Gondor-men.'"

"'Bow your head,' said Cirion, and Eorl did so. Cirion made a gesture, and into his waiting hands was placed a golden crown, forged in the smithies of Minas Tirith the previous winter. Holding it over Eorl's head in both his hands, Cirion proclaimed in a strong, clear voice:"

"'By the power invested in me as Steward of the Realm of Gondor, exercising the authority and sovereign majesty of the King Who Shall Return, I name you Eorl, King of Rohan.' He placed the golden crown on Eorl's head, and stepped back. 'Arise, your majesty!' exclaimed Cirion."

"Cirion arose, and all present, both Gondorians and Rohirrim, bowed before him – save Cirion and Saruman alone, who nodded at him as equals."

"'Present the King of Rohan with his sword, shield and arms!' exclaimed Cirion. Several members of the Gondorian honour guard stepped forth, one bearing a sword, another a shield, and a third a banner affixed to a golden staff. Cirion took the magnificently-gilded sword in its bejewlled scabbard, affixed it to King Eorl's belt, and said 'With this sword shall you smite the foes of your people.' He took the shield, placed its grip in the King's left hand, and said 'With this shield shall you protect your people from harm.' He took the standard, led the King to grip its shaft with his right arm, and exclaimed, 'By these arms shall all Men know you, and with them shall you guide your people in peace and rally them in war.' Eorl looked up at the design on the banner, which like his new shield was embossed with a White Horse on a field of green – a heraldic emblem designed by Cirion's scribes, and symbolizing the magnificent steed Felarof (who had been the talk of Minas Tirith during his brief stay there) galloping across the green fields of Rohan.

"'It is done!' eclaimed Cirion. 'Hail to the King of Rohan!' 'Hail to the King!' shouted all assembled, and then there was cheering and applause, as King Eorl whistled and the steed Felarof galloped up to him. The King vaulted lightly onto the magnificent horse's back, and all agreed on how noble and majestic was their appearance – the young King, magnificently crowned, armed and armoured, astride his enchanted steed, who neighed proudly as he witnessed the great good fortune of the mortal Man he had befriended in a birch-wood in the North many years before."

"Thus from Eorl sprang the line of the Kings of Rohan, who rule that land to this very day under their current monarch Thengel, the seventeenth King; and from Felarof sprang the Mearas of Rohan, who to this day are steeds of especial magnificence and mystical power, and whom the King of Rohan alone is permitted to touch or to ride. The people themselves prospered, and even the least of them was secure for many generations from poverty or famine. They built a nation which has waxed strong and proud, the Realm of the Horse Lords. And thus, Eorl's Saga reaches its end."

The storyteller downed the last of his ale and appeared satisfied, while an approving mumur began amongst the crowd. But, one of the Bree-hobbits raised his hand shyly.

"Pardon me," he said, "but if that is the end of the saga, perhaps it is not quite the end of the tale. What happened to Eorl after he became King? And what does his tale have to do with that of Fram and Scatha the Worm?"

"A fair question," nodded the storyteller. "Eorl's fate, of course, was in the end that which awaits all mortal Men. But he lived for many long years, married happily, and sired many strong sons, the eldest of whom was named Brego. Eorl, his mother Sigrun, and his wife and children settled in a fortified longhouse at Aldburg, near the foothills of the White Mountains, and secured their vast share of Scatha's gold within a heavily-guarded treasure-house nearby. Sigrun remained at Aldburg until the end of her days, dying peacefully in her sleep after a respectable term of years."

"Alas, Eorl did not die peacefully, but was slain by a stroke of ill fortune. When he was in late middle age, a party of bandits from East of Anduin crossed the river and were harassing the homesteads of the Rohirrim in the region the called the Wold, which lies between the Limlight and the Entwash. King Eorl led an expedition north to punish the raiders – alas, he did not take Felarof with him, but one of Felarof's offspring of but three years old whom he hoped to train in combat. While the Rohirriem were scouting the land one morning there was a sudden ambush, and whether due to the youth and inexperience of his steed, his own dimming powers as old age advanced upon him, or simply the whim of fate, the King was slain by a stray arrow. The raiders were wiped out, naturally, but victory had come at a grevious cost."

"Eorl's corpse was taken back to Aldburg in a solemn funeral train, and the whole nation was plunged into deep mourning. Felarof neighed frightfully at the site of his friend's body, and then took off into the grassy meadows, never to be seen again by mortal eyes, although thankfully his offspring by the female horses of the Rohirrim remained at their place with Eorl's heir Brego."

"Brego himself had spent much time visiting the Gondor-men at Minas Tirith, or Mundburg as the Rohirrim called it, and their ideas and culture had left their impression on him. Rejecting the immolation of Eorl's body on a pyre in the heathen custom of old, Brego decreed that Eorl would be interred in a stone-lined tomb in the Gondorian fashion. He selected a site for the tomb near the hill of Edoras, not many miles west of Aldburg."

"The Rohirrim were as clumsy as stonemasons as they were gifted as woodworkers, so to cover the crudity of the roughly-hewn stone blocks that lined the tomb they were surfaced with turf. Eorl was buried within and granted all the honours, songs and reverential speeches that were his due. "

"The next morning, Brego was formally invested as the second King of Rohan. He was about to depart for Aldburg when, to his astonishment, he noted that overnight the turf above Eorl's barrow-mound had sprung alive with beautiful, fragrant white flowers known as Simbemyne."

"Brego took this as a sign, and decreed that Edoras would henceforth be the new capital of Rohan. A wooden-beam town and walls were built there under his direction. But his great achievement was to build new hall, one more fitting for the majesty of a King."

"Brego had acquired some learning in the principles of architecture and engineering from the Gondorians, and by his own hand he set out plans for a great hall that was vaster and more magnificent than any Northman had ever seen before. The carpenters shook their heads, but went to work regardless, and under Brego's watchful eye the gigantic wooden hall was in time constructed, dominating the landscape for miles about."

"Its timbers were far thicker than were required to support its weight, and the carpenters soon discovered why this was. For after King Brego dismissed them with his thanks, he then summoned all the metalsmiths of Rohan to Edoras. He had a plan both to make his hall a place of such splendour that even the Gondor-men would be impressed, and at the same time to rid himself of the burdensome need of guarding at all times the treasure from Scatha's horde."

"The metalsmiths were even more skeptical than the carpenters had been, but set to work notwithstanding. Their work proceeded very slowly, for by its nature it was much slower and more painstaking than that of the carpenters. But bit by bit, they progressed in their task – melting the gold coins from Scatha's horde into thin sheets of gilt, with which they then gilded the elaborately carved beams and pillars of the great hall at Edoras."

"Years passed until finally, after fully a decade of work the Meduseld, the Golden Hall, was complete! I can vouch myself that its shining beams are a beautiful sight even from afar, and from up close it is most impressive. Even the Gondor-men have expressed admiriation for its craftsmanship, and that is saying a great deal."

"I might also add that in this deed Brego displayed perhaps greater wisdom than any of his predecessors, even Eorl himself. For Scatha's gold had been a source of greed and contention amongst his people ever since the time of Fram son of Frumgar. By melting it down and gilding Meduseld with it, Brego ensured that that the gold won by Fram at a terrible price would be held forever in trust by the Kings of Rohan, affixed as it was to the very beams and rafters of their great hall, but unable to cause further mischief amongst the people. From that day to this the Rohirrim, even their Kings, have measured their wealth in land and beasts acquired and safeguarded by their own efforts or those of their forebears; coin is nothing more than an occasional medium of exchange for them. The lust for gold and the dark passions attendant upon it has been lifted from their hearts."

"And as for Rohan itself, it has had an illustrious history, which - alas! - is far too long to relate to you tonight, even were my voice were not growing too weary to do so. Suffice to say that Rohan is indeed strong and proud, and that it is fast friends with Gondor to its south, and with the Wizard Saruman to its west, who for many years has dwelt at Isengard as he long ago planned. And _that, _Master Hobbit, is indeed the end of my tale. I trust it has met with everyone's satisfaction?"

"It has indeed, sir!" exclaimed Butterbur, rising to his feet and beaming appreciatively. "Far more than I expected to tell the truth, and perhaps far better. You've earned some weeks of room and board on the house, if you wish it."

"I might wish it, or I might not," replied the storyteller. "I am in any case grateful for your generosity. Perhaps you could make good on it now, at least in part? A pot of tea, a large bowl of stew, a loaf of bread, a good-sized portion of cheese, and a number of fruit tarts seem in order at the moment. And more pipeweed if you please!"

"Right away sir!" replied Butterbur with a strained smile, as he immediately began to calculate how much of the night's profits might be consumed by the old storyteller, whose appetite it seemed considerably exceeded his girth. Meanwhile many of the Hobbits and Men thanked the storyteller for his efforts with gifts of copper coins – though not old Goatleaf, who quickly finished the last of his beer and stalked off into the night, rain or no rain, before he was called upon to contribute his share.

Butterbur returned with a heavily laden trade of food for the storyteller, who tucked into it as if he had not eaten properly in weeks (which judging by his appearance, thought Butterbur, he probably hadn't). The innkeeper was gratified to receive more orders of ale and food from the crowd, which soon made up for the dent that the storyteller's appetite had put into his take of coins for the evening. But as he bustled about taking orders and bearning in trays of food and drink from the kitchen, the tacturn Dwarf, whom it seemed everyone had quite forgotten about, cleared his throat loudly.

"Excuse me!" he proclaimed. "But it appears all of you have neglected something. I was promised an opportunity to redress the calumnies against the Dwarven race that marred yon greybeard's tale."

"So you were," said the old storyteller, between gulps of stew and bites of bread. "Be my guest! I'm done with speaking for tonight if I can help it, and no doubt these good citizens of Bree would be happy to hear one more exotic tale to help them while away a dark winter's eve."

"Yes, do tell Master Dwarf!" beamed the innkeeper. "I've often had Dwarves as guests here at the Pony; but you're a close-lipped lot, if I may say so. I've never heard a Dwarven tale in all my years, but would be much obliged if you would honour us with one." The Bree-men and Hobbits nodded in agreement, and offered encouraging words to the Dwarf.

His injured air dissipating somewhat, the Dwarf took a long pull from his mug of ale, wiped his beard clean, and then sat up as straight as he could, his plain, brown-bearded face sombre.

"I am not surprised you have never before heard a tale of my people," he began, "for we have learned though many ages of bitter experience not to be overly trusting of outsiders. Knowledge is power, and it is not meet that those not of the Dwarven kind should know too much of our trials and ordeals, nor that they should know anything of our secrets. There are many tales I know which I am sworn never to relate to outsiders, for they form part of the secret lore of our race. But there is one tale I can tell you, at least in its essentials. It touches on the issue of the gold that was _stolen _by Fram and his brigands in the tale you heard earlier. And my tale will relate to you something of the trials and the tragedies of the Dwarven kindred, for which it seems outsiders oft have little sympathy. We know we are a stunted and unlovely people by the standards of Men and Elves – no, do not deny it! – but you shall see our tales are no less eloquent than theirs."

With this introduction, the Dwarf then assumed a hushed air of gravity, as if the tale he was about to relate was near sacred in its importance, even if not forbidden to outsiders. "I shall tell you now of Khazad-dum, Dwarvenhome of old, and the follies and ill-fortune that led to its tragic fate."


	3. The Fall of Khazad dum and Epilogue

_The Fall of Khazad-dum:_

"This tale begins nearly a thousand years ago, during a time you Bree-landers would recognize as late in the reign of Arvedui Last-King of Arnor at Fornost in the days when he fought against the dreaded Witch King of Angmar, and some decades before the time of Fram son of Frumgar of the upper Vale of Anduin, of whom you heard from yon greybeard's tales."

"There were and are many Dwarven mines and halls scattered across this Middle Earth, from the Blue Mountains in the West, where my own clan now dwells, to the Iron Hills far to the East, on the threshold of Rhun. Some of these mines and halls are mean and poor, others magnificent and rich. But none of them have ever so much as touched upon the vastness, the beauty, the magnificence of Khazad-dum, the ancient realm where in the Elder Days of Starlight the Dwarven race first made its mark upon the world, long before the first Men or Halflings were even thought of, in an age when Elves were their only neighbours."

"How can I begin to describe Khazad-dum in all its grandeur, its beauty, its vastness? I who have not seen it even it its current state, and was not born until many centuries after its fall? I have heard it described to me time and again, but beyond doubt I cannot do it justice. It is known today amongst Men as the Mines of Moria, but to call it a _mine _is as much an insult as it would be to call the Citadel of Minas Tirith a pile of stones, or the Golden Hall of Meduseld a thatched hovel. If I told you that Khazad-dum in the days of its glory contained more riches than those of all the Kings of all the nations of Elves and Men on this Earth since the dawn of time, you would perhaps accuse me of poetic exaggeration; if I told you that Khazad-dum contained chambers and halls so vast that one could fit the whole of Minas Tirith into them with room and to spare, you would undoubtedly brand me a liar. Yet by Aule's Oath these are no lies or exaggerations, but the literal truth. That no outsider belives in them now is a sign of how far the world has fallen from the glory of the Elder Days."

"What then were the origins of Khazad-dum? It began as a cavern under the Misty Mountains, under the snowy peaks of Zirakzigil, Barazinbar, and Bundushathur, known to Elves as Celebdil, Caradrhas, and Fanuildihol, and in latter days to Men as Silvertine, Redhorn and Cloudyhead. To its west lay the headwaters of the river Glanduin, and to its east the sacred lake of Kahled-Zaram, the Mirrormere, from which flows the river Silverlode into the Elf-wood of Lorien. In this cavern in the very heart of the mountains Durin the Deathless, forefather of the Dwarves, began to carve with simple tools the first shaped and dressed chambers from the living rock. Other Dwarves took to their own tools beside him, and for thousands upon thousands of years one chamber was carved after another, and one vein of gold or silver or mithril tapped after another."

"Khazad-dum grew and grew, until in spanned the entire breadth of the Mountains from east to west, and ranged from the highest peaks to the deepest foundations of the Earth. Who can describe its magnificence? There were silver fountains, and gold-panelled walls. There were clear gems that cast their cool light into the darkness, rendering torches and candles obsolete except in emergencies. There were mountains upon mountains of treasure in the vaults, gold and silver and jewels, and most of all the precious metal mithril itself. There were halls of such splendour and glory that the starry skies above cannot compare. And there were the Dwarves of Durin's line themselves; minstrels and scholars, miners and craftworkers, guards and traders, now labouring diligently, now feasting merrily in brightly-lit halls. They lived and loved, fought and died, as is the way of all mortal folk. For countless generations did they grace those noble halls under the mountains."

"Ages upon ages passed. For all his long years Durin proved not truly deathless in the end – Alas! – and so he was succedded by his son, and he by his son in turn. Elves settled to the East and West of Khazad-Dum, in Lorien and Eregion. For a time, there was friendship between our people and the Elf-smiths of Eregion, in particular between our Narvi and their Celebrimbor. But the Elves of Eregion, through their folly, were seduced by the Dark Lord of old and brought a terrible curse upon the world. We Dwarves did not forget or forgive it, and ever since we have thought precious little of the pride and vanity of Elves. We swore off all dealings with them, and looked to our own defences in the dark times that followed."

"Ages more passed, more Dwarven-kings followed each other in sucession, and the World itself was changed. The Dark Lord was defeated in a great battle, in which the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum played their part. But after that battle things were not as they had been before. The Elves became a fading people, vanishing slowly into the twilight, and their place was taken up by Men. Indeed, Men became ever more common in the lands about, at least for a time, though after many years their numbers began to dwindle in the North, even as they waxed strong in the South. And yet in time the Shadow began to grow again in the East and to drift westward. The creatures of the Dark Lord, Orcs and Trolls and other vile folk, began once again to creep into the mountain passes, and waylay passing caravans and honest traders as they had in the dark times of old."

"It was on that account the troubles of Khazad-Dum began, for trade has long been the life's blood of the Dwarven kind. We do not grow our own crops or raise our own livestock, nor cut our own timber, nor weave our own cloth, save where necessity demands it. By choice we work only in metalcraft and gemcraft, and trade the fruits of our labours with other kindreds for the necessities of life. Long ago we traded with the Elves; when our dealings with them ceased and times grew perilous, we tightened our belts and traded what we could for the barest necessities that the wild Men about the Mountains could provide. When the Dark Lord was defeated and the Men of Westernesse thickly settled the lands things looked up for us, and the flow of wealth to and from Khazad-Dum began to approach what it had been in the days of yore. Our people grew fat and contented – and yes, greedy too, for wealth attained however easily is not lightly surrendered."

"But now the Orcs and Trolls were once again threatening our trading caravans, and by so doing they threatened the treasure and the livelihood of countless thousands of Dwarves. First one clan faced hardship as it lost a carvan in the Redhorn pass; then another lost near all it possessed when all four of its caravans, one after another, were looted in the wastes of Eregion, Hollin as it is known today. The raids on the caravans grew ever bolder and more frequent, and more and more were they despoiled. For the first time since the dark days of long before, misery and poverty began to spread amongst the common folk of the Dwarves, as they lost everything they had risked in trade, or as their wealthy patrons began to dismiss all but the most essential of their servants, fearing that they needed to guard their own treasuries against unforeseen disaster."

"Thus it was that one day (though day and night were the same in gem-lit Khazad-Dum) King Durin VI called to council the greatest ministers, the wisest counselors, and the wealthiest nobles of his sprawling realm. His brief to them was simple; to discuss what could be done about the Orcish and Trollish menace to the trade and wealth of Khazad-Dum."

"King Durin sat on his golden throne, which sat under the vaulted dome of a gilded private chamber which long ago had been carved from the living rock, at the head of a long, tow table carved from fused gemstones, radiant with its own inner light. The assembled Dwarf-lords of Khazad-Dum sat on their own chairs of silver, along the lengths of the King's table. At the far end of the table opposite his father sat Prince Nain, heir to the throne of Durin's line."

"As he stared at them all, thumbing the plaits of his long, grey beard, Durin said:

'My friends, what is to be done? Orcs and Trolls are multiplying in the Misty Mountains. Our caravans are in jeopardy, our trade in peril. Our people face impoverishment – many lost everything but their tools and the clothes on their backs when their trade goods were despoiled. To whom shall we turn for help? Our kindred in the Blue Mountains to the West and the Iron Hills to the East are far distant, and can spare but few warriors in our support. The Men of the North Kingdom are in decline, and at war with the terrible Witch King of Angmar; they cannot aid us. Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell is not himself our foe, yet even so he is akin to those Elves who dwelt once in Eregion and with whom we have not had dealings since the dark times; in any case, all his affairs are bound up with the fate of Arnor. No help shall come from that quarter either. Nor can the Men of the South Kingdom, who are at constant war with Rhunlings and Haradrim, come to our aid. Our ties to the Northmen of Rhovanion are few; they are not our friends. We have been on bad terms with the Elves of Lorien for many ages; they will do nothing to help us, nor in any event would honour permit us to ask for their aid. How then shall we help ourselves?'"

"'I grudge every last copper penny that falls into the filthy paws of an Orc!' grumbled an aging, fat Dwarf-lord by the name of Dundor. 'We must have free trade, without let or hindrance. Merciless war against the Orcish filth and their allies, the savage Trolls! Death to them all!'"

"He was met with cheers from around the table, as the other Dwarf-lords pounded their heavy fists against its adamantine surface. Only King Durin and Prince Nain remained silent. Then King Durin said, 'How shall we finance such a war, Lord Dundor? We can manufacture our own weapons and armour, to be sure. But what of the food and other stores we shall need? If we have not a great supply in reserve, and the war takes an ill turn for us, we could be left to starve in our own halls. Prudence demands we must build up all our reserves in great measure before we can go to war against the Orcs and Trolls. Who shall pay for this?'"

"'By far our greatest wealth is in Mithril,' replied Dundor. 'With a single well-guarded caravan of it, we could in short order buy all the supplies we need for decades to come. Yet our common stores of Mithril run low. The veins of it in the mines are tapped out after thousands of years of exploitation. We must dig deeper, dig beneath the very roots of the Mountains, in order to find the Mithril we need in trade for supplies. Are there growing numbers of the idle, who have lost their livelihoods due to the raids on their caravans, or dismissal by their masters? Then let us get them off their backsides, and put them to work deep in the lowest caverns! By the sweat of their brows shall we gain the wealth we need. Then verily our stores shall be full, and our war against the Orcish and Trollish swine may last for generations if it must.'"

"There were many approving nods along the length of the table, but Prince Nain frowned deeply. Then he spoke, saying:

'Your majesty, my lords - our people need not be impoverished by lack of trade, nor by the loss of their hard-wrought trading goods in the sack of their caravans by the Orcs. Many are the lords of our people whose wealth is beyond counting. Were they but to open up their treasuries for the benefit of all, there would be enough wealth for the least of our people to live in splendour for a thousand years. Let us defend our caravans with vigour, by all means. If we must make war on the Orcs and Trolls, so be it. But we need not force the people ever deeper into the mines, into dark and unknown caverns, to finance our wars. If war it must be, let our great nobles and our own royal house finance it with their own wealth, and let us remove a heavy and dangerous burden from our people'"

"He was met with stony-faced silence, and not a few glares of anger. Olin, a younger Dwarf of especial pride and magnificence who was but newly come into his inheritance, took the floor. Speaking in a deep voice, he cried, 'Those of us around this table have wealth and to spare; what of it? Shall a Dwarf-lord live in less than splendour? Shall his cups be made of less than gold, shall he not number his precious jewels as Men number the ears of wheat in their fields, and Elves the trees in their forests? My wealth is my own; no Dwarf outside my own house has a claim on the least penny of it. My ancestors toiled for it, and to them I am grateful. But why should one who is not of my own house receive the benefit of it? If the craftsmen and artisans have less wealth than I, that is their lot. Let them be put to work by the King at a reasonable wage, and let the fruits of their labours supply us with the finance we need.'"

"'Here here!' cried Dundor. 'No one shall part me from the merest scrap of my treasure. It is the patrimony of my sons – it shall not be squandered lightly. By ancient treaties amongst ourselves, only the Mithril of the mines is held by the King alone in trust for all the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum, and only it may be used to finance works in the common interest. If we had enough Mithril in the upper mines, our problems would be solved here and now. But as we do not, we have no choice but to dig deep, dig beneath the Mountains themselves, north toward the Redhorn from whence the veins of Mithril seem to flow. Let the King acknowledge this, and command the people accordingly.'"

"King Durin was silent for a long time, as he thought carefully about the courses of action open to him. He knew his son Nain spoke words of wisdom concerning the treasuries of the nobles and the burdens of the people; but he also knew that what Nain proposed was impossible. The great houses of the Dwarven-lords would never permit it, as the words of Dundor and Olin proved. Any attempt by the King to confiscate their wealth would lead to civil war, here in the heart of Khazad-Dum, at a time when the Dwarves needed all their strength in unity against their ancient Orcish and Trollish foes. And as for opening up the royal treasuries…well, thought Durin with a smile, there Nain showed the naivete of youth. He would learn in time."

"'I thank all who have spoken for their counsel,' said Durin in a grave voice. 'My decision is made, and these are my commands. The mines that follow the veins of Mithril shall be expanded, deeper and wider, north towards the Redhorn. Those amongst the people who are idle shall do this work, and the Royal Engineers shall supervise it. The proceeds shall be placed in a common fund, used solely to purchase supplies in trade. With these supplies shall we build up our stocks of food and other necessities. The armouries shall be kept busy, our stores of weapons and armour increased, our ablest warriors trained for battle. Then we shall form our plans and strategems, and launch our war. We shall not stop until not a single Orc or Troll draws breath from Gundabad in the North to Angrenost in the South. I swear by Aule the Smith we shall prosecute this war of extermination relentlessly, should it take one-hundred years to attain the victory. I the King have spoken – so it shall be done.'"

"The Dwarf-lords stood up from their chairs and bowed deeply. They were smiling in satisfaction – all save Nain, who appeared crestfallen that his counsel had been dismissed wholesale by his father the King, and who feared that he had lost face amongst the Dwarven-lords. He turned to his father, but Durin was engaged in conversation with several of them. Shaking his head, Nain returned to his own chambers, hoping that his worries would prove unfounded."

"For, not idly had Nain expressed his fear for the dangers faced by the miners should they delve into the deep, untapped caverns beneath the Mountains. He knew the perils they might face, as did all the nobles and the King himself. The caverns of Khazad-Dum had not been untenanted when Durin the Deathless and his brothers had first delved therein; evil things had dwelt there, creatures spawned in the Age of Darkness, foul, loathsome things that had never seen the light of the Stars. The Dwarves had long waged battled with them, and driven them from the upper halls and mines in those most ancient of days before the first rise of the Moon and the Sun. The ignorant assumed them long-dead, but now and again one or two of their more dimunitive desencents could still be found lurking in newly-opened caverns. The wise amongst the Dwarven kindred knew that many more of their descendents surely lingered in the deep caverns yet untapped, perhaps in the company of creatures even older and fouler than themselves."

"Yet at first it seemed that Nain's fears were indeed groundless. The idle were put to work, and the mines were deepened and expanded towards the roots of the Redhorn, just as King Durin had commanded. It was hard, grueling work to be sure, but nothing any Dwarf worth his salt could not handle. The lower caverns proved empty, save for blind, pale fishes in cold pools, and little slimy or crawling things of worm- and bug-kind that were of no account. The veins of Mithril did indeed flow north and downwards towards the roots of the Redhorn, just as Dundor had surmised, and it was not long before the first fragments of the precious metal began to make their way to the upper halls."

"Ah, Mithril! It is found nowhere apart from Khazad-Dum, and is of all metals the most precious, though it is very sparsely distributed amongst its ore-rock, and many thousands of tonnes of ore must be crushed and smelted to extract a few molten drops of it. Lighter than a feather it seems, yet harder than Dragon scales. Perhaps you would disbelieve me if I told you that a single chest of Mithril ingots, fairly valued, would be more than enough to purchase the whole of the Bree land?"

The Bree-landers did indeed disbelieve this, but felt it was not best to challenge the Dwarf, who had proved so touchy and ill-tempered throughout the evening. Yet he interpreted their silence as aquiescence, nodded, and continued:

"And well you should accept the truth of my words! For they are merely stating the plain facts of the matter."

"But, to continue: the work in the mines progressed, day by day, week by week, month by month and year by year, patient and yet persistent in the Dwarven-fashion. It had to be done slowly, for there were significant challenges raised by excavating tunnels so deep under the mountains, which without careful work might at once cave in under the awesome weight of the miles of rock above. But the Royal Engineers were experts at their craft, and I am proud to say not a single Dwarven life was lost as a result of a cave-in or other accident during the construction of the new mines. Nain's fears seemed ill-founded indeed, and much to his own displeasure and his father's concern he was publicly ridiculed by Dundor, Olin, and the other Dwarf-lords on more than one occasion."

"Thus matters continued until ten years had passed since Durin VI had issued his commands – until the year nineteen-hundred and eighty of the Third Age, if I reckon correctly according to the calendar of the Gondor-men. Much had changed in the world outside, for Arnor had fallen into ruin several years before, and with it the line of the Kings of Men came to an end in the North. But the Witch King's power was also broken in Angmar, and that foul wraith fled the Northlands, never to return. Many Orcs and Trolls were slain in the Battle of Fornost, and for a time their raids upon the Dwarven caravans out of Khazad-Dum lessened, though the loss of our markets in Arnor brought further impoverishment to many of our people."

"Even so, our armories were built-up as Durin had commanded, and the supply of Mithril to be used for purchasing vast stocks of grain and other essentials from the Gondor-men was near completion. Soon, perhaps within a year, Durin planned to unleash his war against the Orcs and Trolls, exploiting their weakened condition to expunge the last trace of them from the Misty Mountains even if such an exploit still took some years to achieve. The minstrels in our brightly-lit halls sang ancient songs of victory in battle, and the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum toasted each other over flagons of mead and joints of meat, eagerly anticipating their long-awaited vengeance against their Orcish and Trollish foes."

"In this general mood of hopefulness and battle-lust, few who dwelt in the upper levels of Khazad-dum felt need for concern when one day news reached them that a party of craftsmen in the deepest part of the new mines, who had entered into a newly-carved shaft that opened on yet another dark cavern for the purpose of stabilizing the roof with beams and struts, had failed to return on time. That day passed into another, and it soon became clear that they had failed to return at all."

"Dark rumors fueled by the tales and superstitions of ancient times began to spread amongst the miners of the lower levels, but the engineers who acted as their overseers were keen to forestall a panic. Declaring that the party of Dwarves had no doubt gotten lost, they organized a rescue mission to track them down and lead them back to the known and charted caverns where they had last been seen. Some of the braver, younger miners volunteered to join the expedition, which was led by several junior engineers who had been promised hefty rewards if they undertook its leadership. Promising to be back within three days, and to bring the lost miners back with them, they departed into the same mineshaft and the same uncharted caverns in which the missing Dwarves had last been seen. The older, more cautious miners said prayers to Aule the Smith, the god of all Dwarves, and continued with their work as before."

"But when four days had passed, and then five, and _that _second party of Dwarves also failed to return from the ill-fated caverns beneath the roots of the Redhorn, the dark rumors were soon fanned into the flames of all-out panic. Throwing down their hammers and chisels, many of the older or better-off Dwarves amongst the miners, the ones who still had some meager savings still salted away in their chambers on the upper levels of Khazad-Dum, flat out refused to work any further. Ignoring the pleas and defying the threats of their supervisors amongst the Royal Engineers, they set in motion the gears and pulleys that hauled the mining carts up the long, steep shafts back to the upper levels, riding those carts that were empty of ore back to the safety of the upper mines as swiftly as they could. Only the poorest and most desperate miners remained down below so that they could keep collecting their miserly wages, and even they proved surly and well-nigh unmanageable, refusing to enter into any chambers but those which were already well-lit and well-explored. Yet as these chambers had already been tapped-out of most of the precious slivers of Mithril that flecked the walls of the caverns, the work of the deeper mines soon ground nearly to a standstill."

"Needless to say, this news was not well-received by King Durin and the Dwarf-lords. They had a war to fight, one which might last many years despite the weakened condition of the Orcs and Trolls of the Mountains. How could they fight it when they had not the Mithril to buy all of the supplies for which they had budgeted? True, they could sell what Mithril they had to obtain a substantial quantity of food stores, and at the council meeting held to discuss the issue Prince Nain recommended this course. But he was quickly shouted down by the Dwarf-lords, who insisted that the full amount of Mithril required to purchase the planned amount of stores must be hauled up from the mines, by hook or by crook."

"'And how are we to obtain that Mithril, when our miners refuse to take up their tools, or to carve new mine shafts into the still-untapped veins?' asked Nain, his voice barely containing his impatience at the subborness of the Dwarf-lords."

"The pay of those who threw down their tools has been cut off," replied Dundor with a smile, "and so has that of the malcontents in the deeper mines who expected to be paid without doing any work. Soon they will use up what savings they still have, if indeed they have any, and then they will begin to starve. Poverty will drive them back into the deeper mines, and hunger will set them to work at excavating new shafts and digging up the remaining Mithril-ore that we need.'"

"'Are our people slaves then, to be driven like the lowest Orc?'" fumed Nain.

"'Mind your words, young Prince!' shouted back the elder Dwarf-lord. 'You are not so high and mighty that I would fail to challenge you to a duel, if you insulted my honour!'"

"'Peace!' cried King Durin, raising up his hands. 'There will be no duels with my son, Dundor. He is heir to my throne. Much wealth and power you may have, but you forget yourself and your place.'"

"Dundor grumbled angrily, but made a show of bowing before the King. Durin then said the council, 'I do not wish to wait weeks or months for work to resume in the mines. Once again I ask you, what is to be done?'"

"'Prince Nain speaks so eloquently on behalf of the commoners he must surely be popular with them,' smiled Olin, the younger Dwarf-lord who was one of Nain's regular antagonists on the council. 'Perhaps he should have a word with the loafing miners on the upper levels, and also descend into the deeper mines himself in order to persuade the fearful malingers there to get back to work?'"

"Durin frowned at the young Dwarf-lord's insolence, but said to Nain, 'Would you be willing to undertake such a venture, my son?.'"

"'I am willing,' replied Durin, rising from his silver chair, 'and I shall set out to do so at once.' He bowed to his father, and then without a word to the Dwarf-lords exited the council chamber and made his way towards the distant hall that led down to the deeper levels where the miners had disappeared."

"It was a journey of some hours westward and downward, but at length Nain found himself in the older, upper levels of the mines, near the entrance to the long, sloping shaft that led into the newer and deeper mines opened up but a decade before. The way down to and up from these deeper levels involved riding in empty mining carts. These could be set in motion by the turn of a lever that channeled the water from mountain streams over waterwheels whose motion turned the gears that pulled the carts up and down the shaft on metal tracks, in parallel columns, by means of a mighty length of heavy steel chain to which each cart was affixed. Nain turned the lever which set the entire contraption in motion, jumped into one of the moving carts, and patiently rode the long descent down into the deeper mines."

"When he arrived at the bottom, after a leisurely descent of nearly an hour through a shaft but dimly-lit by occasional glowing gems set into its walls, he expected to find at least a few waiting engineers anticipating his arrival, since typically the carts would not be set in motion from the upper levels unless it was to carry workers down to the lower levels. Yet to his surprise, as he leapt out of the cart and began to walk down the broad horinzontal shaft that formed the entrance passage of the deeper mines, its gem-lit corridors were completely empty. He called out several times, but his voice was met only by its echo along the deserted corridors."

"Feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, Nain silently debated what he should do next. He did not want to report to his father that the deeper mines were completely abandoned without a more thorough exploration of them; yet, some warning voice from deep within told him that it would be folly to advance another step beyond where he stood. A deep dread began to descend upon him, and he fought the urge to turn and flee back to the moving carts, back to the safety of the upper levels."

"Then, Nain heard it; distant and soft at first, then nearer and louder by the second. It was a chaotic scraping and clacking, as if of many hundreds, of many thousands of rapidly moving feet. As he stood rooted to the ground, he realized there was no doubt; whatever creatures were making the noise, they were heading straight for him. He found himself wishing it was the vanished miners and engineers, but knew full well that no Dwarves could ever make the sounds that were moving closer to him by the second."

"Concluding that discretion was the better part of valour, Nain turned about on his iron-shod heels and ran towards the mining carts. He soon reached the place he sought, but before jumping back into one of the carts he could not resist the temptation to turn around and see what was following him."

"As he did so, Nain felt his stomach turn cold, and nearly went sick with disgust and fear. Surging toward him down all sides of the gem-lit corridor was a living tide of vermin!"

"There were thousands upon thousands of boated carrion worms, giant centipedes, frenzied spiders, and pale, sightless things he could not describe or imagine even in his nightmares! Creeping, scraping, clacking, crawling, the loathsome horde surged down the long shaft, many of them dripping poison from envenomed fangs. Thousands of glittering, faceted eyes stared back at Nain coldly, all seemingly eager to fall upon their prey."

"Certain now that he had uncovered the cause of the miners' disappearance, and that no further enquiries need be made as to their horrible fate, Nain leapt into one of the moving carts as fast has his legs could carry him. As the cart moved past the lever that projected from a control panel set in the wall of the mineshaft, Nain reached out and slapped it into the setting that would pull the cart up the sloping shaft to the upper levels with the greatest possible speed. He was thrown back by a sudden jolt as the gears in the distant mechanism shifted, and then felt himself pressed against the rear wall of the cart as it hurtled upward with incredible speed, his teeth and bones jarring painfully as the cart rattled over its metal tracks, his long hair and plaited beared flowing in the wind that scoured against his face."

"It was less than ten minutes before Nain found himself nearly at the top of the long shaft, the glittering light of the upper levels shining brightly at the end of the dimly-lit tunnel. Seized by a sudden fear that he might miss his chance and find himself hurled back down _towards_ the horde of vermin, Nain leapt out of the cart as soon as it reached the top of the shaft, and went flying through the air, only to land on his posterior in a most painful and undignified manner. Several engineers happened to be standing by the shaft's entrance, for when Nain had set the lever to maximum speed it had triggered a mechanical alarm that alerted the engineers in the nearest station-room in the upper levels that there was trouble afoot. They had been about to administer a severe reprimand to the fool who had set the carts in motion at such a dangerous speed, but seeing that the Dwarf sprawled on the ground before them was in fact the Crown Prince and Heir to the Throne of Khazad-dum, they wisely held their tongues."

"'His dun-colured skin now ashen pale, Nain pulled himself to his feet, and without bothering to dust himself off began shouting orders to the astonished engineers. 'Shut down the carts at once!' cried he. 'Shut them down now! Sound whatever alarm you may, and summon the King's Guards here on the double! We need burning pitch and boiling water, as much as you can make in less than an hour! Hurry, you gaping lackwits!'"

"The engineers were mystified, but seeing the panic that had infected their famously stoical Prince, they were not inclined to argue with him. The carts were swiftly brought to a halt, and the engineers scurried off to their appointed tasks, while Nain stood at the top of the shaft, listening frantically for the sounds of the crawling vermin slithering up from below."

"There were but a few Guards on hand within calling distance, for there was little need for them in the mines. Such as there were soon arrived, accompanied by a larger number of engineers, and of miners who were employed tapping such veins of gold and caches of gems as could still be found in the ancient upper levels of the mines. The engineers had many tools of the smelting-craft on hand, and began to roll large pots and cauldrons toward the mineshaft, firing up coals to heat the water and pitch they had poured within their thick-walled iron containers. Nain had by this time steadied his nerves somewhat, and made clear to the Dwarves present the nature of the threat that was surely surging up from deep below. Their faces twisted with disgust at the thought of the crawling vermin, and pity at the terrible fate that had met the miners and engineers far below – and perhaps, thought Nain, with rage at the greed of the Dwarf-lords who had driven them to that fate. Did he catch sight of a few resentful glares aimed at himself? He was his father's son, and sure to incur resentment for his father's choices; but, he vowed, when then day came that he ruled Khazad-Dum from the throne of Durin the Deathless, things would be done differently."

"Turning his thoughts back to the matters at hand, Nain noted approvingly that all was at the ready. The horde of vermin might have taken their prey unwares in the deep mines, but now the shoe was on the other foot. They were expected, and had no means of escape from the shaft but to go forwards or backwards. Either way, they would make easy targets for the floods of burning pitch and boiling water that now awaited them. The warriors stood in a row, their double-bladed axes at the ready to dispatch any vermin who somehow slipped past their fate and out the exit from the shaft into the upper levels. A second row of warriors stood behind them, ready to dispatch with burning brands loaded into their crossbows any of the vermin who might crawl onto the ceiling above, or who otherwise sought to escape their doom."

"The crawling things could be heard clearly now, clicking and scraping as they scurried up the shaft, the glowing gemstones that were set at long intervals into its walls turning dark as the thick horde of creatures scurried over them. As they neared the rim of the entrance, Nain gave the order, and the kettles of burning pitch and boiling water were poured down the shaft in wave after wave. There was a hideous screeching and clattering, and a nauseating smell soon drifted upwards from the shaft. Yet to Nain's amazement, the vermin did not retreat back to the lower levels. They continued to surge upward, right into the alternating waves burning pitch and boiling water that spelled their doom. Some of them did indeed slip past the exit of the shaft, but they were soon dispatched by the axes and flaming brands of the warriors. The grim work continued for some time, but at last the tide of vermin ebbed and then died entirely, as the last of them were snuffed out. Not a single Dwarf had been slain or even wounded, thanks to the tight defence they had established."

"The Dwarfs swept the perspiration from their brows and congratulated each other on a job well-done, and for having avenged their brothers who had perished in the deeper mines under the claws and fangs of the vermin. Nain congratulated all of them personally, and promised to speak well of each of them by name to his father, who he assured them would reward each of them with a hefty prize of gold for their brave service."

"All the Dwarves were cheered mightily by Nain's generous words, save one alone; an aging, grey-bearded miner whose thickly-lined face was uncommonly grim and dour even for the Dwarven-kind. When Nain asked him what was the matter, he shifted uneasily on his booted feat; but at length he acknowledged that the tide of vermin didn't strike him quite the same way it had the others."

"'I know it seemed to all you folk that they was surging up here hungry to eat some Dwarves for their supper,' he whispered gruffly. 'And things would no doubt have gone poorly enough for anyone unlucky enough to have been surrounded by them crawling things and buried under 'em. But mark ye – I've opened up new caverns before, in the farthest reaches of some of the upper levels of the mines, when I was in my youth. And now and then I seen one or two of them crawling things, giant spiders and carrion worms and suchlike. Sometimes they'd move to attack us if we were few, and we'd have to fight hard to drive 'em off or slay 'em. But when we were many, especially if we had torches, even the biggest of them nasty critters might flee from us in a panic.'"

"And what is your point, old fellow?" asked Nain, who was not at pleased at the thought that his relieved mood might be overturned by some hoary greybeard's whisperings."

"'My point, lad – er, I mean your Highness,' muttered the elderly miner, 'is these crawling things today didn't look to me like they was running _at_ us to catch and eat us. They looked to me like they was all in a panic and running_ away_ from something else, something behind them, down there in the deepest mines. Didn't you see how they threw themselves into the burning pitch, into the waves of boiling water? It was as if they preferred a quick death up here to facing whatever they had run away from down there,' he concluded with a hushed, portentious whisper."

"'Don't worry about it, old chap,' replied Nain with apparent cheerfulness, clapping the aging miner on the shoulder. 'They're just mindless beasts, driven by their appetites. There's nothing to read into their crawling and scurrying about.' But as he turned on his heels and began the long march back to his father's chambers on the upper, easternmost levels of Khazad-Dum to make his report of events, the old miner's words lingered uneasily in the back of Nain's mind."

"Nain chose not to mention the miner's fears to his father, for how could he lessen the satisfaction his father would feel at victory – or, for that matter, risk making a fool out of himself in front of the Dwarf-lords yet again - based on the whispered doubts of a single elderly commoner? King Durin, who had been taking council with Dundor and several other Dwarf-lords when his son entered the gilded and be-gemmed throne hall, was mightily pleased that the problem had been resolved and that production of Mithril could resume. The Dwarf-lords also nodded approvingly, and Dundor made a rather patronizing show of congratulating Prince Nain for at last taking charge of the situation in the deeper mines so as to further the work approved of by the King's Council, despite his having continually questioned the wisdom of that Council's decisions in the past."

"King Durin formally commanded the miners and engineers to return to their work in the deeper mines, although as a concession to them he also ordered a brigade of his own Royal Guards to accompany them, in case any more flesh-eating vermin lingered in the newly-opened caverns. He promised a public funeral ceremony would be held to commemorate those who had been slain in the deeper mines, took the names of the Dwarves who had defeated the vermin, and agreed to pay each of them a purse of gold coins as a reward for their efforts. Nain could see that Durin was already calculating how soon it would be before the last of the required Mithril had been smelted into ingots, so that he could purchase the stores needed to launch the long-expected war against the Orcs and Trolls of the Mountains."

"As Nain left his father's glittering halls, he ran into his own young son and heir Thrain. Thrain, noting the troubled look on his father's face, enquired as to what was disturbing him, for the news of the victory against the loathsome vermin from the deeper mines had spread like wildfire amongst the Dwarves in the upper levels of Khazad-dum, and there was much rejoicing amongst them. 'Nothing is the matter, my son,' replied Nain. 'My mind is merely taxed by the stress of the battle this day.' He glanced at him furtively, and said, 'I might wish you to make a journey to the upper world someday, in which case you should have your kit and some provender ready. You might be departing Khazad-Dum on short notice. You have not yet taken wife nor sired offspring, so it should take little effort for you to leave these halls speedily if called upon to do so.'"

"'I'll prepare, father,' nodded Thrain. 'But for what purpose?'"

"'You needn't concern yourself with that for the present,' replied Nain. 'Now, go and join the celebrations with your friends.'"

"So all Khazad-Dum rejoiced – though not without an appropriate funeral tribute being paid to those who had perished in the deeper mines – and things once again returned to how they had been. The miners who had refused to work after the first disappearances, and who were now running low indeed on funds to support their families, gladly accepted the King's generous offer to station warriors in the deeper mines for their protection. There were perhaps a few cynics who whispered that the warriors would accompany them as much to prevent them from deserting their posts again as to protect them from any lingering vermin, but they were soon silenced by those who needed their pay too much to afford offending the King with seditious words."

"The engineers had swiftly cleared the debris left by the vermin in the shaft that led to the deeper levels, and fortunately the iron-walled carts and the mechanism that drove them had not been damaged by the flood of burning pitch and boiling water. King Durin himself was on hand as the miners, engineers and warriors descended down the shaft in their carts, wished them good fortune, and bade them to work speedily and well in bringing their precious cargoes of Mithril-bearing ore to the upper mines."

"Two days passed, and the carts then began to return to the surface bearing Mithril-ore ready for the smelters and refineries of the upper mines. The smelterers and engineers set speedily to work, for before returning to his halls on the upper levels King Durin had instructed them that it was of the utmost importance to make up for the delay in production, and fill their quota of refined Mithril ingots within the required time."

"But on the third day, the carts began to come up empty, one after another. The smelters and engineers began to stare at each other uneasily, and then at last, when half a day had passed without a single cart bearing a trace of ore to the surface, they sent word to the King that once again there appeared to be trouble in the deeper mines."

"Nain was present when his father received the news from a messenger, and while the Prince turned pale, the King's grey-bearded face grey ruddy with rage. Calling for the commander of the Royal Guards, he ordered an entire regiment of warriors to leave their posts by the Eastern Gate, and descend at once into the deeper mines to discover what had happened, and put paid to any creature that had once again caused the production of Mithril-ore to fail. These warriors soon received their orders, and promptly set to their long march to the deeper mines, leaving only a skeleton guard on the Eastern Gate itself."

"Durin and Nain then made their way to the Chamber of Mazarbul, which lay to the south of the King's Chambers across the Twenty-First Hall on the Seventh Level of Khazad-Dum – that great hall whose pillars were each five-hundred feet in height and one-tenth that many feet in breadth, and whose vaults were lit by crystal chandeliers full ten tons in weight apiece. In the Chamber of Mazarbul the ancient records of the Dwarves had been located since time immemorial. Durin wished to know if there were any hints of ancient knowledge concerning the caverns under the Redhorn, so that the source or refuge of the vermin who it seemed were still plaguing the miners could be uncovered and the foul creatures utterly extirpated. Nain accompanied him, since in his youth he had displayed a special talent for research in the archives."

"Now, it should be noted that Durin had ordered the warriors to send word by messenger as to what conditions they found in the deeper mines when they had reached them. He had expected to receive this word within a day or so. Imagine his surprise, then, when less than a half a day later the entire regiment returned from their expedition! Durin and his son heard the echoes of their iron-shod feet in the mighty-pillared hall outside, and Nain followed the King as he strode out of the doors of the Chamber of Mazarbul, demanding of the Guard commander why he was not fulfilling his explicit orders. Nain noted the pale features and worried glances of the Dwarven warriors, and once again felt a chill of fear down his spine."

"This Guard commander replied to the King that the regiment had only made it to the upper levels of the mines, some distance from the shaft that led to the deeper mines, when it was clear that something was dreadfully wrong. The upper mines, like all the corridors and halls of Khazad-Dum, should have been clearly lit by the glowing gemstones set into the walls. Yet instead, these upper mines were entirely plunged into darkness!"

"The commander, at a loss to explain this failure of the light, ordered his troops to brandish their torches instead. They did so, but the wavering torchlight soon revealed a deeper and more troubling mystery. _The mines were entirely deserted! _There was not a miner, not a smelterer, not an engineer to be found anywhere in the caverns on the shafts that the warriors had explored. Their shouts and calls had merely echoed emptily amongst the labyrinthine tunnels."

"'How do you explain this situation, commander?' demanded the King, stamping his foot impatiently. 'And why did you not explore futher, to uncover the truth behind this mystery? Shall it be said that Dwarves, indeed the King's own handpicked warriors, are afraid of the dark?'"

"'I have no direct evidence, my liege,' bowed the commander, wisely ignoring the King's jibe, 'but I fear that a large army of Orcs has penetrated Khazad-dum itself!'"

"'Impossible!' cried King Durin, his features now set with rage. In all the thousands of years of its history, no Orc had ever set foot in Khazad-Dum. Durin did not intend for it to be said in the chronicles that the first such invasion had occurred in his own reign."

"'There is no other explanation, my liege,' replied the commander stoically. 'Those foul folk do have their own cunning arts, and they are near as adept at us at tunneling and quarrying under the mountains. I deem they opened up some caverns unknown to us, which led into the newer, deeper mines where we have sought Mithril these ten years past. They ambushed our miners and in the deeper levels, and drove the vermin up towards us in these upper levels as a diversion. Now they have slain the warriors and miners we sent down into the deeper mines again, and moreover they have since invaded the upper mines, slaying the miners there, and using their black arts to dull the light from our wall-gems. I ordered my Guards to return to the dwelling-places of the eastern upper levels at once, for fear of an ambush down below"

"'He speaks wisdom, father,' nodded Nain. The Prince felt the commander's explanation would account for his uneasy mood of the past several days; some Dwarves have on occasion been blessed by an inner sense that warns them when their ancient foes, the Orcs, are nearby."

"'Does he?' snapped the King irritably. But then he was silent for several minutes, thumbing his long, plaited beard. At length he said, 'Let us say you are correct, commander. That would mean Khazad-Dum has been cut in half, for if the Orcs have seized the mines they could easily have seized the western chambers and the West-Gate that opens upon Hollin. The few Dwarves who dwell in those western regions would have been overwhelmed by them if the Orcs invaded in great numbers, as they surely would.'"

"'That is correct, your majesty,' nodded the commander. 'I propose…'"

"But it is said he never finished his sentence. For from the western doorway of the great pillared hall, whose stairs led down to a guard room that in turn led down into the upper mines, there came a deep, low rumble, as if the ceiling of an entire cavern had crashed to the ground, or a wall of stone had collapsed entirely."

"'What in Aule's name was that?' gasped the King, blaspheming in his shock."

"Another harsh echo rumbled down the many-pillar hall from the western door, followed by an indescribable noise, as if of thousands upon thousands of stones grinding together."

"'The enemy attacks!' cried the commander. 'They are working some mischief in the deeps. No doubt their vanguard may come flying up the steps of the western door at any minute!'"

"'To your posts!' cried the King – who no longer doubted his commander's suppositions. 'March to the western door at once! And someone fetch me an axe!' He turned to Nain."

"'Back to the Royal Chambers, Prince!' he commanded. 'Summon the heralds! Command them to summon the rest of my Guards, and bid the Dwarf-lords to send their own private guards to join my army here at once! Warn the people to flee their chambers and make eastward for the Second Hall! They are to bring what weapons they can find, even pickaxes – if we are overwhelmed here, we shall fall back, and the Second Hall shall be our redoubt. If we our driven out of the Second Hall and across the Bridge of Khazad-Dum, the First Hall behind the Eastern Gate shall be our last redoubt.'"

"'But father…' objected Nain, who did not wish to be sent away from the King's side when battle was immanent."

"'Fly!' shouted Durin. 'Do as I command! You may rejoin me here when your work is done.'"

"So Nain ran as fast as he could to the Royal Chambers beyond the northern door, while King Durin, equipped with an axe and shield from the warriors (but no proper armour) led his Royal Guard to the western door. The situation seemed advantageous, for the door was narrow, and only a few Orcs could come through at a time such that they could be easily cut down by the Dwarves – unless they had contrived some way to bring down the wall entirely and invade en masse. The Guards commander feared they intended just that, given the crashing and rumbling that echoed up from the deeps, and he ordered his warriors to take their position a full thousand-feet from the western wall until the intentions of the Orcs became clear."

"Meanwhile, Nain reached the Royal Chambers, and his words soon set the occupants of their brilliantly-lit, gilded halls into a near panic. The heralds set to work, and soon Dwarves were scurrying in all directions – the nobles, even Dundor and Olin, to the Twenty-First hall along with their private guards to join the King and his army, the commoners eastward and downward toward the Second Hall as Nain had commanded. Nain searched about, and soon found his son Thrain."

"'What is happening, father?' asked young Thrain. 'Rumour is spreading that the Orcs have invaded Khazad-dum through the mines! How is that possible?'"

"'It matters not,' snapped Nain. 'We are taken by surprise, and may soon be overwhelmed, at least in these upper halls. Find your mother, seize the provender and kit I told you to prepare, and make your way to the Second Hall, as close as you may to the Bridge of Khazad-dum. You might have to cross it, and even flee through the Eastern Gate and down into the Dimrill Dale under the open sky.'"

"'Am I not to stand and fight with you, then?' asked Thrain hotly."

"'Don't be a fool!' replied Nain. 'I am Crown Prince; my place is in battle beside my father the King. But your duty is to preserve our line. If your grandfather and I fall in battle, who then shall lead our people if not you? You must safeguard yourself to fight another day, if worst comes to worst!'"

"Thrain bowed dutifully, and set off to do as he was bid. Meanwhile, Nain raced to his own apartments, and soon emerged wearing his own arms and armour. He picked up a spare breastplate and helm for the King, and then ran back as fast as his legs could carry him, under the vaulted arches of the Twenty-First Hall, where a large army of Dwarvish warriors, led by his father and the Dwarf-lords, stood arranged in three broad rows seven dwarves deep apiece, ready for the Orcish assault. Nain girdled the breastplate about his father the King, and placed the helm upon his graying brow; Durin smiled at his devotion. Then they turned and waited for their foes to appear."

"The rumbling had echoed up from below for some time now, growing louder and nearer, as if a mighty hammer was shattering the rock beneath their feet and a vast pickaxe was tunneling up towards the Twenty-First hall from deep below. Impossibly, the floor itself began to shake, and a rain of dust began to descend from above, as if even the mighty vaulted arches that had been carved by Durin the Deathless in the ancient days when the world was young were beginning to give way under some unimaginable strain. A thin crack suddenly appeared in the polished floor, some distance westward and to the north of the Dwarves, and began to grow haphazardly with every crash and rumble from down below."

"The Dwarves grumbled uneasily amongst themselves, for they knew that while the Orcs had some skill in mining, it was inconceivable that they could exert blows of such tremendous force against the impregnable walls and floors of Khazad-Dum. Were they joined by a vast army of Trolls, smashing at everything in sight with their terrible stone hammers? If so, the coming battle would be a grim one indeed."

"Such were the thoughts of the Dwarves, when the light from one of the gem-lit chandeliers far above the western door began to fade. Then it failed entirely, as did another, and another. A rolling wave of shadow descended upon the Twenty-First hall, plunging the Dwarves into utter darkness."

"'Torches! Torches!' they cried, and sure enough flaming brands were soon held up here and there amongst the companies. But they provided pitiable illumination of the nearest pillars and the western wall amongst the vast, all-embracing darkness – a darkness such as no one can imagine, unless he has explored the deep places under the surface of the world for himself. Far behind them, toward the south, only a single shaft of natural light penetrated that black void, from a narrow, open air-vent set into vaulted ceiling far above the Chamber of Mazarbul."

"The Dwarves muttered prayers to Aule the Smith, and braced themselves for what was surely an immanent assult. The pounding and hammering down below grew stronger and louder, till the floor trembled mightly with each stroke, and the Dwarves were hard put to stand firmly on their feet. They steeled themselves and waited."

"Suddenly there was a mighty, thunderous roar, as the growing crack in the floor before the Dwarves suddenly exploded in a shower of flying stones and thick dust. Several Dwarves were killed at once by falling boulders, and the rest had to step back quickly, still in their ordered columns, to avoid any further casualties. The dust began to clear, exposing in the torchlight a vast open gulf where the crack had been, in depths utterly obscured in darkness."

"The torchlight could not cast the least impression into this absolute darkness, and that struck the Dwarves as a strange thing. But stranger still was that darkness began to _grow_. Like a living thing it surged up from the gulf, blacker than midnight, blacker than pitch, a tangible thing that devoured all torchlight that fell upon it. It towered dozens of feet above the Dwarves now, a mightly pillar of Shadow. A pall of fear fell upon all the folk of Durin, and the King himself began to tremble inside of his armour. Whatever stood above them, it was no Orc or Troll. Nain feared it was some foul device of the enemy, conujured up by their black arts to douse the light in darkness, and strike terror into the hearts of Dwarven-kind."

"As they stood fearfully before the pillar of Shadow, two small, bright points appeared in it, high above. They began to grow, until they took the form of two great, glowing orbs. The light from them was not cool, nor was it warm; it was hot, fiery hot, and it blazed so fiercely and terribly that the Dwarves could not endure the sight of it. It burned their skin, and seared their eyes, and they trembled before the flaming orbs, even as they stood rooted to the ground by their fear."

"Then the orbs took form, two great, narrow ovals, and revealed themselves for what they were. _They were the eyes of the thing that towered above them!_"

"Even as Nain cried aloud in terror, and Durin wept and cursed fate and all the gods, the pillar of Shadow was suddenly set afire by an aura of Flame, as bright and terrible as that burning flame of the nameless thing's eyes. Its form was all too clear now; it stood upright like a giant Man, but on cloven hooves, and its heavy form was twisted and evil. Two great shadowy wings, like those of a giant bat, grew out from its back, and two curved horns like those of a mountain goat grew out from its misshapen head. It stood motionless, as if content to let Durin's folk writhe in fear before laying their Doom upon them."

"Suddenly, finding his courage, Durin gave an order. 'Archers!' he cried. 'Fire! Kill the beast before it nears us!'"

"Their hands and arms shaking, the archers lifted up their crossbows, and unleashed a torrent of hundreds of heavy bolts against the pillar of Shadow and Flame. Any living thing, even a Dragon, would have been slain by them, for on each bolt was carved an enchanted Dwarven rune, and even an evil Fire-Drake with a hide of Mithril scales could not have endured the powerful magics that would have been unleashed upon it when the enchanted bolts hit home."

"But these bolts never reached their target. Before they had flown within fifty feet of it their wooden shafts burst into flame and ashes, and their steel heads melted into molten metal. A torrent of ash and melted steel fell uselessly at the terrible thing's cloven-hoofed feet, as it stared silently upon its prey."

"Then it opened its wickedly-fanged mouth, and unleashed an awesome roar that echoed deafeningly amongst the massive pillars and vaults of the hall. Two great sheets of fire shot up from each of its talloned hands – the one to its right taking the form of a vast, fiery whip, and the one to its left a sword of living flame."

"Now King Durin gave the only order that he could. _'Run!'_ he screamed. "Drop your shields, and flee for your lives!'"

"Many of the Dwarves had already done so, and the rest soon joined them, fleeing desperately to the east, to the doorway that led down flights of carved stairs to the Second Hall, were the commoners had been told to form a redoubt. But with a single mighty leap, the terrible thing was upon them, more a force of nature than a beast. Its flaming whip darted about like lightning, its fiery sword swung right and left. The merest touch of either foul weapon caused its victim to burst instantly into flames, leaving not a trace behind. The Dwarf-lord Dundor perished thus, weeping with fear, and Olin soon after him, the look on his face up to the last instant one of utter shock and disbelief."

"Nain frantically pulled his father along with him, though the aging King soon began to puff and wheeze heavily, unaccustomed as he was to the strains of running after many long years spent in ease and comfort. Suddenly Durin faltered, and lay sprawled upon the hard stone floor."

"'Father!' screamed Nain. 'To your feet! Hurry!' He stared upward at the merciless pillar of Shadow and Flame, which strode inexorably toward them."

"'Run!' cried the King. 'Save yourself and our people! That is my last command!'"

"Weeping bitter tears, Nain turned and ran, already far behind the fleeing survivors. Yet he could not stop himself from turning back for a moment. What he saw turned his blood to icewater and his heart to stone. King Durin, still clasping his axe in his aged hands, stood now to his feet. Raising his axe above his head, he cried "_Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-Menu!_" – which in the Common Tongue is "Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you!" - the ancient battle-cry of the Dwarves since time immemorial."

"The evil thing halted in its stride, staring at the doomed King with its terrible burning eyes. Then, its hideous face twisting into what Nain realized was a _smile_, it relinquished hold of the flaming sword in its left hand, which disappeared at once in a shower of sparks. It reached down, and seized hold the King of Khazad-dum. "

"Durin's axe at once melted into a torrent of liquid steel. But his body was not at once consumed – it burst into flames, yet the King remained horribly alive, screaming in agony as the skin peeled slowly off his withering flesh, exposing the bones beneath."

"The evil creature lifted up the King of Khazad-dum, holding him in the air like a living torch. For some moments it gloated over his torment. Then it threw him through the air, where he crashed against the nearest pillar, and exploded in a shower of sparks and ash. By this foul deed the being of Shadow and Flame had named itself – for it would ever afterward be known amongst the Dwarven people as Durin's Bane."

"Nain, beyond all grief in his terror, turned again, running for his life as the thing began to pursue him. He barely reached the doorway to the eastern stairs and ducked inside its heavy arch before the firey whip lashed out at him, missing his back by a handsbreadth. Then Nain was flying down the stairs, in the wake of the handful of warriors who had survived the massacre in the Twenty-First hall."

"At length, Nain dashed out from the stairway, many levels down, and found himself on the threshold of the Second Hall. It too was held up by mighty pillars, but there were fewer of them than in the Twenty-First Hall, and it was lit by gems set into the pillars rather than by chandeliers above. Between the pillars were broad, open expanses of polish stone floor, punctuated here and there by deep shafts that led into ancient mines far below that had long since been tapped dry. Toward the east, there lay a mighty gulf which descended toward the roots of the world. This gulf was spanned by a single, narrow arch of stone – the Bridge of Khazad-Dum – which led to the First Hall on the other side. The First Hall was but a narrow expanse of flat stone, in which was set a doorway that led up a carved stone stairway to the Eastern or Dimril gate. The Dimril-vale, under the open sky, lay eastward beyond it."

"Amid the open spaces of the Second Hall were thousands of Dwarves, who had hastily dropped everything (save the occasional pack of precious goods or provender) and fled there from the upper levels on the command of the King's heralds. They were shifting aimlessly about, rather than readying a proper redoubt as they had been instructed, when the terrified warriors fleeing the Twenty-First hall had burst in upon them, running as fast as their legs could carry them towards the Bridge."

"'Khazad-dum has fallen!' cried the warriors. 'Flee for your lives! Save yourselves!' Many of the Dwarven common folk looked fearful at this news, yet some scoffed, even though they could not imagine why warriors would play such a prank on them. For Khazad-dum – the mightiest realm of the Dwarves since time immemorial – to fall to any enemy was simply inconceivable. Some of them turned to Nain, who they now saw racing toward them, for an explanation."

"'Are you deaf, you fools?' cried Nain. 'The King is dead! Doom is upon us all! Fly across the bridge and up the stair to the Dimril-vale while you still can!'"

"As if to prove the truth of his words, the ground began to shake suddenly beneath their feet. Showers of dust fell from the ceiling above, just as it had in the Twenty-First Hall, and an ominous rumbling echoed up from one of the broad shafts that led to the ancient mines below."

"Scoffing no longer, the people began to move quickly to cross the Bridge, over which the warriors had already fled. But it was a narrow span, wide enough that it could only accommodate the Dwarves in single-file. It had been built in that manner to impede the attack of any enemy who managed to take the Eastern Gate and the First Hall, since in crossing single-file over the limitless gulf even a vast army could be held at bay by a small number of Dwarvish warriors. But now it was the Dwarves themselves who were impeded in their escape, caught in their own trap, and their exit from the Second Hall to the First and then up the narrow stairs to the Eastern Gate was painfully slow."

"Nain rushed to the Bridge, and to his relief he found his wife and his son Thrain standing near it, just as he had commanded. They both wept with the news that Durin was no more, but Nain would not waste words of grief upon them."

"'Over the Bridge, now!' he shouted, and grabbing each of them by the arm he barged into the column of refugees and led them single-file across the narrow span – for he knew that now was not the time for gestures of futile bravery, if Durin's royal line was not to be extinguished utterly by the Doom that fast approached."

"Even as they reached the other side and set foot on the polished stone floor of the First Hall, the light from the gemstones of the Second Hall began to fail, and then die entirely. Both halls were now plunged into darkness, save for a few narrow beams of light where the Sun's rays penetrated through ventilation-shafts far above. Panic descended upon the people now, and they began pushing and jostling as they hurried to cross the narrow bridge, some of them nearly falling off it into the limitless gulf on either side. Nain ordered his wife and his son Thrain to cross the First Hall and climb the stairs to the Eastern Gate without delay, but he himself stood just beyond the eastern edge of the Bridge, urging the people to cross and exit the hall as quickly as they may without doing themselves or each other an injury."

"No more than a few-hundred Dwarves had safely crossed the Bridge when a dark pillar of Shadow suddenly shot-up from one of the ancient mineshafts sunk into the floor of the Second Hall. Weeping openly, Nain called again to the Dwarves to flee for their lives, even as Durin's Bane revealed itself in all its fiery horror, flaming whip and sword rekindled and ready for butchery".

"There was utter pandemonium now, as Dwarves stampeded towards the Bridge, while many who sought to cross where pushed to their deaths in the fathomless chasm that it spanned by those stronger and even more desperate than themselves. Nain could only stare in horror as the thousands of Dwarves still trapped in the Second Hall – those too old, too young, or two infirm to push their way through the frantic crowd and across the Bridge – succumbed to the flaming whip and sword in a terrible massacre, even more fearsome than that of the Twenty-First Hall."

"It took Durin's Bane no more than a few minutes to complete its evil work, and then not a single living Dwarf was left in the Second Hall. The vile thing then strode towards the Bridge, its flaming body casting a hellish glow upon the pillars and vaults of the Hall. Nain abandoned his post now, and dashed for the exit to the stairs himself, even as it caught sight of him and roared fearsomely. With two mighty leaps it bounded across the Bridge and landed upon the floor of the First Hall, its fiery whip and sword slaying those few old or weak Dwarves who had made their way across the Bridge, but had not the strength to force their way through the press of the others towards the stair. Yet this gave Nain sufficient time to reach the stair himself, and catch one final glance of Durin's Bane, flaming sword and whip brandished triumphantly as it let out a deafening roar. Then he turned and vanished up the stair himself, leaving the halls of his forebears since time immemorial behind him."

The Dwarf paused for a moment now, his rough features lined with sorrow as he stared at the faces of his audience. All were silent. The Bree-men were grave and somber, while the Hobbits were quivering with fear. The aged storyteller, who had long since finished his meal, stared sharply at the Dwarf with his bright blue eyes, yet seemed somehow lost in thought. "Durin's Bane…the Balrog of Moria," he whispered, but said no more.

The Dwarf sighed deeply, and then continued his tale:

"When Nain passed through the Eastern Gate and into the brightly-lit Dimril Vale –it was Novemeber Eve, but the crisp autumn air was bright and clear, and the hour was not yet noon – he saw the few hundred surviving Dwarves of Khazad-dum, more warriors than commoners, and more males than females, fleeing for their lives down the Dimril Stair. He flew after them, fearful that at any moment the walls of the mountains would burst open behind him, and the terrible being of Shadow and Flame would pursue the race of Durin even to the very last, leaving not one survivor amongst them."

"Not until they reached the tranquil waters of Khaled-Zaram, the Mirrormere lake, did they stop, and that was out of exhaustion rather than the dissipation of their fear. But Durin's Bane did not come crashing through the sheer rock walls of the mountains, and it soon became clear to them that its pursuit had ended at the First Hall. Then they fell to their knees, some numb and witless, some weeping with exhaustion or fear, some risking themselves an injury by quenching their thirst in the frigid, ice-cold waters of the lake. Nain himself stood wordlessly, gazing in the lake's surface at the placid reflection of the snow-capped peaks of the mountains, of the Redhorn and its peers. There they stood, solid and unmoveable, their calm majesty giving no hint of the terrible Doom that had befallen the Dwarven people beneath them."

"It took the best part of a day before Nain could rouse himself to establish some order amongst the survivors, who thankfully included both his wife and his young son Thrain. As day turned to night, and the waters of the Mirrormere reflected the pure light of the Stars and Moon above, Nain soon realized the situation was grim indeed. The people had fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs, or at most and in only a few cases a few sacks of provender or of precious goods. Everything else they possessed – their arms and armour, their precious gems and ingots of gold and silver and mithril, their stores of food – lay in Khazad-dum, at the mercy of Durin's Bane."

"It was a grim and bitter night in which many tears were shed and many curses uttered, and the morning was no better. The bright cheerfulness of the early November Sun against the clear blue sky seemed but a mockery. The people were already beginning to go hungry, and it was obvious that their situation was untenable. Nain at length organized a party of brave volunteers amongst the warriors, who with him crept fearfully back to the threshold of the Eastern Gate. Ducking inside, they turned their backs to the stair that led down to the First Hall, and dashed up a narrow stair to a barracks that had been carved into the living rock above the Gate. There they found such stores of food and weapons and other supplies as had been provisioned for the Gate-guards, and with all the speed they could muster they took hold of these and carried them back down the stairs and out the Eastern Gate toward the makeshift camp by the Mirrormere."

"Thus equipped, and set out with military tents and a store of provender, the survivors prepared to spend the fast-approaching Winter encamped by the freezing waters of the Mirrormere. They could imagine no other course of action, for they had no where else to go. There was some talk of fleeing either West to the Blue Mountains, or East to the Iron Hills, and throwing themselves on the mercy of their distant relatives who lived in the Dwarvish-mines of those places. But it was too late in the year for such a long journey in either direction, and so they had no choice but to linger in the Dimril-vale until the next Spring. That they should seek to reclaim Khazad-dum from Durin's Bane was, naturally, inconceivable in their weakened condition. Pride prevented them from begging for aid from the haughty Elves of Lorien, who no doubt would have taken secret delight at the terrible misfortune of their ancient Dwarvish foes. And well did they acquit themselves in that, for any Dwarf worthy of the name would much sooner starve and freeze to death, along with all his relatives, rather than humble himself as a beggar before one of the sly and treacherous Elven-folk."

The old greybeard shook his head vigorously at that remark, and frowned deeply, but he did not interrupt the Dwarf, who continued with his tale:

"So they passed a bitter winter by the frozen Mirrormere. They hunted such game as they could to supplement their meager stores, but even so many of the oldest and youngest Dwarves starved and froze to death, and their numbers were reduced to fewer than five-hundred – out of all the many thousands who had once lived in Khazad-dum! Nain, his wife, and Thrain at least managed to get by on their own means, thanks to the sack of provender and camping-goods that Thrain had prepared on Nain's instructions, and to Thrain's apparent talent for snaring birds and tracking-down game."

"King Nain – for King he now was – had much to think about over that bitter winter, and when the ice melted from the Mirrormere with the arrival of spring he had reached a conclusion. For now, the Dwarves of Khazad-dum would have to take up residence elsewhere – he favoured the East, near the Grey Mountains or the Iron Hills, rather than the West, since the fall of Arnor had plunged the future of the Westlands into doubt, and they no longer seemed the safe refuge they once might have. But he would not come begging cap in hand to anyone. Risking all, he resolved on a brief return to Khazad-Dum, to scavenge more provender and weapons, and most importantly of all as much treasure as possible from the vast Royal and noble storehouses. Then at least his people could forge a new home for themselves with some honour and dignity intact – until the distant day came when they had multiplied sufficiently, and learned enough of the means by which they might defeat the terrible Durin's Bane, that they could reclaim their rightful home in Khazad-dum."

"Summoning the Dwarvish males to his tent, Nain laid bare his plans to them, and asked for volunteers. They new it was a great risk, but Nain reminded them that Khazad-dum was vast, and that with care they might be able to salvage what they needed from its upper halls before attracting the notice of Durin's Bane. So after some time, Nain persuaded a hundred of the bravest warriors and as many miners and craftsmen to accompany him back to the Eastern Gate. Thrain he instructed to wait at the camp beside the Mirrormere, and take command of those of the people who remained there if worst came to worst."

"So Nain and his brave volunteers returned to Khazad-dum, their every fearful step as silent as it could be. The found the First and Second Halls plunged into darkness, save for the beams of sunlight which here and there shone down from the ventilation shafts. Crossing over the Bridge, their way guided by but a few torches, they filed across the Second Hall and the up the stairs that led to the upper levels where food was stored, or down to the armories and treasuries. Most of them took the downward path, for Nain had instructed them that to salvage what they could from the treasuries was the most important task – treasure could always be traded for food or weapons if it had to be."

"They set swiftly to work, and for several days, each moment of which was spent in sleepless fear, they gathered together what valuables they could, carrying them swiftly and silently across the Bridge, and piling them for the time being in the First Hall. They dared not risk claiming the ingots of mithril that had been mined over the previous decade, for they were hidden in the King's deepest storehouse, many levels down, and Durin deemed the risk too great. Even so, the upper treasuries were flush with gold and silver and gems, a horde of wealth so vast that to move even a tenth of it would have been the work of a hundred years. Only a few handfuls at a time were taken here and there, stuffed into sturdy leathern sacks and deposited on the floor of the First Hall in orderly rows. The work proceeded smoothly, and some of them began to whisper that perhaps the terrible doom of the previous year had passed, had departed back to the netherworld from whence it came. But Nain knew better than to trust in such hopes, and knew how sorely he was tempting fate as it was. He urged them to move as silently as they could."

"All seemed well, until one day (after having spent the best part of a week in diligent toil) an uncommonly careless Dwarf removed from the treasuries a giant ruby that had been precariously balanced on top of a heap of gold coins. The coins shifted slightly, and then slid down to the floor in a gilded avalanche that echoed loudly down the dark stone corridors."

"Turning pale with fright, Nain, who had been standing nearby, ordered the Dwarves to abandon their work and return as swiftly as they could to the First Hall. It took the best part of an hour before they were all gathered there, and he then set them to work at once carrying the sacks of coins and gems and other valuables up the stairs and back out the Eastern Gate. The provender and weapons he left in their heaps on the floor, not to be evacuated until all the treasure had been carried to safety."

"Most of the treasure-sacks had been carried up the stairs when the Dwarves heard what they had most dreaded – a deep rumbling that echoed up from one of the mineshafts in the floor of the Second Hall. Quickening their pace, the Dwarves began to move towards the doorway that led to the stair, running as fast as they could under the heavy weight of the treasure-laden sacks they carried on their backs. Nain followed in their wake, staring regretfully at such treasure, weapons and provender that remained on the floor of the First Hall, and perhaps calculating how many days it might be before they dared to risk returning to reclaim these remaining fruits of their perilous labours."

"Then, with incredible speed, their Doom caught up with them! For it appeared that Durin's Bane was capable of stealth when it wished. A pillar of Shadow suddenly appeared at the far side of the Bridge, and then burst into Flame! The Dwarves stood in horror at the apparition which had slaughtered their kinfolk so mercilessly the year before. It made no noise this time, but the terrible fiery whip soon shot up from its taloned hand. With two bounds, it leapt over the narrow Bridge and landed once again on the floor of the First Hall!"

"Nain had not needed to command the Dwarves to drop their sacks of treasure and run for their lives. But even as he followed in the wake of his warriors, Durin's Bane ignored the other Dwarves and went straight for him, as if knowing full well who he was. The last of the warriors to reach the doorway to the stairs turned and saw King Nain fleeing hopelessly, only to be caught by the flaming tongue of the evil creature's whip. Nain at once exploded into flames, and then disappeared entirely. His one mercy was that at least his end had been swifter and less terrible than his father's."

"So the Dwarvish warriors and craftsmen fled out the Eastern Gate, where the sacks of the treasure they had managed to rescue (and while but a fraction of the wealth of Khazad-dum it was still a vast sum) lay scattered about carelessly. Fearful that this time Durin's Bane might well pursue them through the Gate, yet at the same time determined that Nain's sacrifice must not have been in vain, they picked up two brimming treasure-sacks apiece and marched back to the camp by the Mirrormere as quickly as they could under the staggering weight of such heavy burdens."

"They broke the grim news to Thrain and his mother as soon as they arrived, and so once again the Dwarves of Khazad-Dum, who had at first rejoiced at the sight of the many treasure-sacks that had been salvaged from the depths, found themselves plunged into mourning. This grief, piled on top of all the others she had suffered, was more than Thrain's mother could bear; she perished that very night. Thus a double weight of mourning was imposed on young King Thrain, and a double funeral was held the next night according to the secret Rites of Aule, of which no Dwarf may speak to outsiders. Then, after the prescribed mourning period had passed, and spring was well underway, King Thrain ordered his people to pack up their goods, decamp from the Mirrormere, and take the first steps of their long journey toward the East, so that the might find refuge near the Iron Hills before the snows of winter once again blanketed the land."

"But fate, grim and implacable, had one last arrow of misfortune to hurl at the Dwarves of Khazad-dum. The Orcs and Goblins, those maggots of the mountains, had sent a large party of scouts and skirmishers southward from Mount Gundabad to learn why the Dwarvish caravans from which they had won so many ill-gotten gains in previous years had suddenly ceased their travels. They arrived at the Dimril Dale on the very day that King Nain and his people were departing eastward, bearning their sacks of treasure with them. Without any apparent curiousity as to why the Dwarves were bearing their treasure on their backs, rather than in sturdy carts, they at once fell upon Nain's folk as soon as the Sun set beneath the Mountains to the west."

"A battle was fought then and there, but it was an uneven contest. The Orcish raiding party was small, but then the Dwarves were few in number, and weakened by hunger, toil and grief. I will not burden you with the grim details, save to say that two-score Dwarvish warriors perished before the remaining Dwarves, under King Thrain's orders, dropped their sacks of treasure and fled for their lives down the Vale and out into the plain of the river Silverlode west of the wood of Lorien."

"Orcish custom would normally have dictated hunting down the survivors to the bitter end, so that they could provide hours of amusing torment before they perished; but the Orcs were relatively few in number, and had sustained many losses themselves, and in the end their greed for gain outweighed their bloodlust; they did not wish to leave the treasure-sacks without sufficient guard while they pursued their quarry. So they left the Dwarves to their fate, took up the treasure themselves, and scurried back to their hills in the frosty North."

The Dwarf sighed again, and noted that some of the Hobbits were weeping tenderly at this sad tale, although they sought to drown their grief with Butterbur's prize-winning ale. But then his countenance turned grim and stern, and he flashed a glare at the old greybeard, who stared at him somberly from the shadows of his corner. The Dwarf continued:

"Now I promised you that my tale would address the calumnies of yon storyteller, and so it does. For the Orcish thieves of that treasure, for which King Nain had vainly paid with his life, soon received their just deserts. They were not far from Mount Gundabad when Scatha the Worm, of whom you have all now heard, descended greedily upon them, slaying them to the very last spindly-armed Goblin. He took the treasure of Khazad-dum for himself, and of its fate since then you have all heard tell. But let it not be said the horse-boys took it justly! To this day the gold that decorates the hall of Meduseld at Edoras is the rightful property of Durin's line, stolen from us by Fram son of Frumgar, who added injury to insult by murdering many fine Dwarvish warriors to boot. If we were were not so diminished in strength in these latter days, even now we would march on Edoras, pry the gold from its pillars and rafters, and carry it back to our own halls. And that, Men and Halflings of Bree, concludes my tale."

The Bree-men and Hobbits nodded gravely, and thanked the Dwarf for sharing his bitter tale with them. Truth to tell, most of them still thought that Fram and his line had a rightful claim to at least half the treasure, since had it not been for Fram's bravery and Freya's sacrifice Scatha would never have been slain, and the treasure would have remained in his lair until the end of time. And perhaps a few thought the Dwarves had brought their own troubles upon themselves, due to the greed and selfishness of the Dwarf-lords and their King. Glancing at the Dwarf's fierce countenance, though, they wisely decided to keep their opinions to themselves.

Even so, the Bree-hobbits who had inquired earlier of the ending of the old greybeard's tale timidly raised his hand, and said, "Beg pardon, Master Dwarf, but whatever became of King Thrain and his line? Last you told of them, they were fleeing from the Misty Mountains with nothing other than the shirts on their backs, or so it seems."

"What?" cried the Dwarf harshly, so frightening the poor Hobbit that he shrank back as far as he could on his stool without falling off. "Is so little of Dwarvish history known to your folk? I suppose I should expect nothing better of this rural backwater," he concluded scornfully. But then appearing to have a change of heart, he said:

"Very well, I shall tell you their fate in brief, seeing as the hour is late and even I grow tired. King Thrain and his people fled to the East, with hardly more than the shirts on their backs as you put it, and several more lost their lives in the perilous journey across the Anduin and past the eves of Mirkwood in the North. They were met and guided by the Grey Pilgrim, it is said, and he showed them the path to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain north of Lake Esgaroth, which proved to be rich with untapped ores."

"Thrain and his people set to work, and soon delved comfortable halls for themselves under Erebor, and many rich mines nearby in the Grey Mountains as well. Thrain founded the line of the Kings under the Mountain, and made firm alliance with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills to the East. Things went well for the Dwarves of Erebor for centuries, even though an attempt by one of Thrain's descendents to reclaim Khazad-dum for the Dwarvish race ended in disaster, and led to a great battle against the Orcish chieftain Azog (who was justly slain) that futher renewed the bitter enmity between Durin's line and the Orcs and Goblins of the Misty Mountains."

"But alas, fate once again hurled a cruel arrow at the heirs of Khazad-dum – of Moria, as foreigners now call it. Scatha had been slain long before, but one last great winged, fire-breathing Dragon yet lived in the Withered Heath north of the Grey Mountains – Smaug the Golden. One grim and terrible day several hundred years ago, he descended in wrath upon Erebor and took it for his own lair, slaying the great part of the Dwarves there and scattering Durin's line once again. Nor did his wrath stop at the Dwarves – he laid waste the nearby town of Dale, and forced the Northmen who lived there to take refuge at the Lake-town of Esgaroth, some leagues to the south. The Dwarves of Durin's direct line fled far, far to the west, to the Blue Mountains; for the East was again growing perilous in their judgment, not merely on account of Smaug, while despite the fall of Arnor the Westlands had proved strangely peaceful. Durin's heir as King under the Mountain yet dwells in his new halls amid the Blue Mountains to this day, but his rightful treasure lies under the foul claws of Smaug the Golden in the heart of Erebor. Of this matter I will say no more; my tale is told in full."

The Bree-hobbit, who had recovered from his fright, thanked the Dwarf for finishing his tale with all loose ends tied-up. One of his friends chirped up that "Listening to tales is thirstier and hungrier work than telling them, Mr.Butterbur." There was broad agreement with this sentiment, and the Bree-men and Hobbits began to discuss eagerly the exotic tales they had heard this night, and place their own orders for food and drink. Butterbur, his broad face once again beaming happily, stood up to refresh his guests with a final round of beer and good homely bread and cheese and stew (and a final infusion of coins into his bulging purse) before turning suddenly towards the two storytellers, an embarrassed expression on his face.

"Pardon me, kind sirs," he said, bowing awkwardly as he wiped his pudgy hands on his greasy apron. "I haven't got the best memory, it seems, and in all the excitement this evening I've quite forgot my manners. Might we have your names, so that the company here has the honour of knowing who delighted them with such marvelous stories of far off times and places, and queer, foreign folk – begging your pardon, Master Dwarf."

"My name is my business, innkeeper, and no one else's," replied the Dwarf gruffly, apparently offended (as Butterbur had feared he might be) at the description of his race as "queer" and not merely foreign. "Take these coins and ready my room for the night," he continued, slapping three sliver coins on the tabletop.

"Suit yourself, Master Dwarf," replied Butterbur obsequiously (for the Dwarf had placed enough money on the table to rent his finest room for the night, and better still had paid for it in three silver pennies rather than thirty coppers). He pocketed the coins in a deftly-practised move. "And you, old fellow?" he asked the first storyteller, a trifle patronizingly.

"I have many names in many lands," replied the old Man, almost as gruffly as the Dwarf. "But in these parts, and in the Northlands generally, I am referred to as Gandalf the Grey."

The Dwarf's jaw dropped open, as he stared at the Grey Wizard in astonishment. Butterbur scratched his head, and stared keenly.

"Gandalf…" muttered the innkeeper. "Now that's a strange name. Most definitely foreign. Do you know, when I think of it I remember a Gandalf who spent some time here at the Pony, many years ago when my poor departed father still ran the place. I was just a lad at the time. He looked much like you, but was about the same age then that you are now. Was he your father, perhaps?"

"Heaven preserve us!" cried Gandalf, his bushy eyebrows shooting up. "Now it's my turn to say my business is my own! Be off with you, Butterbur, and when you return make sure you've a mug of tea and a blackberry-tart waiting for me, if you've any left in your stores."

"I'll see what I can find," replied Butterbur, a bit less obsequiously than he had to the Dwarf (for after all this Gandalf had paid for his ample board with stories, not silver pennies). Butterbur then shuffled-off, leaving Gandalf to turn his attention to the Dwarf, who still sat and stared at him.

"Well?" exclaimed Gandalf at length. "If you've anything to say, then say it. You needn't stare as if you'd never seen a Wizard before."

"Begging your pardon, Gandalf the Grey," replied the Dwarf, who stood up and bowed deeply. "I fear my words and tone were harsher towards you this night than they might have been, had I known I was addressing a distinguished personage of such stature, such reknown, with such a reputation…"

"You needn't trouble me with long-winded Dwarvish speeches, Thorin Oakenshield," replied Gandalf, pulling out his clay pipe and stuffing it with pipeweed from his leathern pouch. "Dwarves don't bother with them unless they want something from others. Pull up a chair and tell me what's on your mind."

"A thousand pardons," replied Thorin, bowing deeply again. "I still can't understand why I didn't recognize you all this time; it is as if a veil were pulled over my eyes. As soon as I heard your name I recognized you immediately."

"_You've_ certainly pulled a veil over other people's eyes this night," replied Gandalf mischievously. "You neglected to inform the Bree-men and Hobbits that the tragic story they heard was told to them by Durin's Heir, the rightful King under the Mountain himself!"

"Hush!" whispered Thorin, as he pulled up a chair in front of the Wizard's table. "Not so loud, if you please! I never reveal my true identity to strangers in foreign parts; for there are more than a few enemies who would be happy to see the end of Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror, heir of Thrain last-King of Khazad-Dum, and rightful King of Erebor."

"That title's quite the mouthful," observed Gandalf while igniting his pipe with a flint and tinder from his pouch. "I prefer 'King under the Mountain' myself. It's strange, though; I was just thinking of you these past few days, and when I pop into the _Prancing_ _Pony_ all of a sudden there you are. The spitting image of your father and grandfather, both of whom I knew well."

"I've thought of you yourself, Gandalf," replied Thorin gravely. "I could use your help."

"Help with what?" asked Gandalf.

"To reclaim what is rightfully mine!" whispered Thorin urgently. "My treasure under Erebor, and my throne; and my vengeance too!"

"Really," said Gandalf, taking a deep pull from his pipe, and blowing out a few smoke rings before replying. "There's the matter of the Dragon, you know. Dear old Smaug will have something to say about your setting up shop in his lair; and about your taking revenge on him, for that matter. There was more than a little exaggeration in your tale, when you claimed a volley of enchanted Dwarven-bolts could slay a Dragon armoured in Mithril-scales – not that Smaug possess such armour, of course. Still, a weapon of that sort applied even to plain old Dragon-scales wouldn't do more than give him a nasty itch, and make him _very _cross with you."

"That's why I need your help, Gandalf," replied Thorin with some embarrassment. "Much as I hate to admit it, we cannot defeat the Dragon without your aid."

"And who is this 'we' you refer to?" asked Gandalf.

"My cousins and other kinfolk," replied Thorin. "There's Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin and…"

"Enough!" said Gandalf, raising his hand. "I don't need a complete list. How many are there in your proposed party?"

"Thirteen, including me," said Thorin. "Though that's an unlucky number for such a perilous expedition, to be sure. Fortunately with you it will be fourteen."

"_Would_ be fourteen," corrected Gandalf, "_if _I accompanied you all the way to the Lonely Mountain." He paused, and frowned slightly. "Understand that I'm only in these parts on a holiday of sorts. I was planning to spend a month or two relaxing in the Shire, which is as relaxing a place as one can find these days."

"The Shire?" replied Thorin, and now it was his turn to frown. "The Halflings of the Shire are just ignorant peasants, worse than these Bree-landers. We buy the food they grow in exchange for gold and silver ingots from our mines in the Blue Mountains; but I wouldn't socialize with them on any account."

"Since when do Dwarves ever associate with non-Dwarves when they can avoid it?" asked Gandalf pointedly. "As it happens, the Shire Hobbits might be ignorant as you say; but they have good hearts, and I've been fond of them for many years. You might say I keep an eye on them now and then to ensure they're getting along decently. What's more I'm friends with the Took family of the Great Smialls at Tuckborough, whose patriarchs have by custom served as Thains of the Shire since the fall of Arnor."

"Indeed," replied Thorin, with little apparent interest. "But about our quest…."

"Yes, your proposed quest," interjected Gandalf. "You have some sort of plan or scheme in mind to regain Erebor for yourself, I suppose? And you want me to help you slay the Dragon, is that it?"

"Yes and yes," nodded Thorin. "There will be a one-fourteenth share of the treasure of Erebor in it for you, if we succeed!"

"That's more than even I would spend in all my days in Middle Earth!" laughed Gandalf. "My needs are simple you know. I _could_ use a small stipend in exchange for my counsel; my purse was lost when I forded the Greyflood, as I mentioned earlier. But you'll have to reserve that fourteenth share for someone else who does something to earn it; I certainly won't."

"You refuse to help us, then?" asked Thorin, who appeared both crestfallen and offended at the same time.

"I did _not_ say that!" exclaimed Gandalf. "Heavens, why does it seem no one other than me actually pays attention to people's words? Now listen carefully; I _am_ willing to help you, certainly to help you devise a winning stratagem. And I _might _accompany you on a good part of your journey to the East; even as far as the westernmost eves of Mirkwood. But no further; I have my own business to attend to later this summer, business of the utmost importance, once my holiday (if indeed I take it) is at an end. It will be quite impossible for me to accompany you all the way to the Lonely Mountain. _Maybe_ I can check in on you there much later in the year, or even early next year, but I certainly can't promise it."

"Well!" exclaimed Thorin, who plainly was not entirely pleased by the Wizard's reply, but just as plainly did not wish to offend him. "We would be greatful for any counsel you can offer, to be sure. But the hour is late, and I'm off for bed; in any case, I don't wish to reveal my secret plans outside of my own halls. Will you agree to forego youf 'holiday' in the Shire, as you call it, and spend a few weeks with me and my kin in the Blue Mountains? My halls are in the northern branch, east of Forlindon. You'll pass through the Shire as far as Michel Delving on the way there in any case, so you can keep an eye on your Shire Hobbits from horseback if you think that's important."

"Hmm," muttered Gandalf, blowing more smoke rings with his pipe.

"And there will be a stipend for you, a generous one, just for offering your counsel," promised Thorin. "And a good horse too, if you've lost yours. I can buy you one here at Bree in the morning."

"Done and done!" smiled Gandalf. "My holiday in the Shire can wait for another year."

Butterbur then arrived, bearing a tray with a mug of tea and a slice of blackberry tart. He deposited it on the table and then bustled off, leaving Gandalf to tuck in. Gandalf devoured the tart and drank the tea in record time, and then stood up, nodding briefly at Thorin. "I'm off to bed myself. We'll continue our discussion in the morning. Good night!"

* * *

The next day dawned bright and clear, the storm having blown eastward overnight. An hour after dawn, Gandalf and Thorin stepped out of the doors of the Prancing Pony, both well-breakfasted and ready for a long day's ride. Thorin strode toward the stables and signaled to the stable hands, who soon brought them two ponies; one of them Thorin's, the other freshly purchased by Thorin from Butterbur for four silver pennies, much to the innkeeper's delight; this one was for Gandalf. They mounted their steeds and without further ado rode down the main street of Bree, and out the Western Gate. 

The rolling fields about were muddy and the trees were bare, looking as if they were still in the grip of late winter. But the air had a rich, fresh smell to it, and the first brave Coltsfoot flowers were already poking up from clay embankments by the roadside; spring was plainly on its way.

"I suppose we'll have to accept your accompanying us no futher than the western edge of Mirkwood, if you can't be swayed on that score," observed Thorin.

"You will, since I can't," asserted Gandalf.

"That still leaves that matter of the number in our company, though," frowned Thorin. "Thirteen Dwarves! That is most inauspicious indeed! I can't leave behind any of them, so we shall have to find a fourteenth member for our party; goodness knows where."

"Let me think on that," replied Gandalf soothingly. Then he smiled broadly. "Help can sometimes be found in the unlikeliest places, you know" laughed the Wizard, as he spurred his horse towards the Shire.

_THE END_


End file.
